Page 42 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

"I'm glad." The admission surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her. "It would be nice to have someone to talk to besides staff, who won't meet my eyes."

A genuine smile lights her face. "I'd like that too. It gets terribly boring being the only woman in this testosterone-soaked environment. The staff are trained not to gossip with me, and the security men are too afraid of Mak to have real conversations."

For the first time since arriving at the estate, I feel a tentative connection to something beyond my grief and fear. She’s nothing like what I expected from Mak's sister. She's open where he's guarded, warm where he's cold, and expressive where he's controlled. Yet there's something in her directness that reminds me of him, a shared quality of unflinching honesty.

We spend the remainder of the morning in the greenhouse, Zina helping me with the plants, asking thoughtful questions about my nursing career, and sharing carefully edited stories of her childhood. She never pushes for personal information, seemingly content to let me reveal only what I choose.

When she finally leaves for a conference call related to her classes, I find myself looking forward to her promised return tomorrow.

* * *

That evening,when Mak makes his customary brief appearance to inquire about my comfort, I surprise both of us by answering directly instead of with the monosyllabic responses I've given since arriving. "I met your sister today," I say, studying his face for a reaction.

A flicker of surprise crosses his features before his expression returns to its usual careful neutrality. "She mentioned she might visit you. I hope she didn't overwhelm you."

"She didn't." I wrap my arms around myself, an old self-protective gesture. "She told me about your mother. About what happened to her."

Something almost vulnerable flashes in his eyes before disappearing. "Zina talks too much sometimes."

"Or maybe you don't talk enough."

The observation hangs between us, neither accusation nor forgiveness, but simply an acknowledgment of a truth we both recognize. For the first time since I've known him, he seems momentarily at a loss for words.

"Perhaps," he says finally. He meets my gaze directly, without the calculation I've come to expect. "Does it help? Knowing?"

The question catches me by surprise with its unexpected sincerity. Does it help to see the broken child beneath the monster? To recognize that even the most fearsome men have origin stories, reasons they became what they are? "I don't know yet," I say honestly, "But it's a start."

He nods once, accepting this partial truth without pushing for more. As he turns to leave, I'm struck by the strange thought that perhaps we're both equally lost in this unexpected connection. We’re a mob boss and a nurse, linked by five impossible lives and circumstances neither of us could have predicted.

"Goodnight, Wil," he says quietly.

"Goodnight, Mak."

After he's gone, I return to the window, looking out at the greenhouse glowing softly in the distance, and the garden he created just for me. A peace offering? A manipulation? Perhaps both simultaneously?

I place my hand on my stomach, thinking of what Zina said about possession being the beginning of love for men like her brother. The idea should repulse me, but in the quiet darkness of this strange new world, I wonder if understanding the monster might be the first step toward seeing the man beneath.

17

Mak

Istand at my study window, ostensibly reviewing quarterly financial projections but actually watching Wil and Zina in the gardens below. They walk the stone path between flowering beds, and Zina's hands move animatedly as she speaks. The distance prevents me from hearing their conversation, but I see Wil's posture gradually relaxing, her guard lowering incrementally in my sister's presence.

When Wil smiles at something Zina says—a brief, genuine expression that transforms her face—I also smile. Such small victories shouldn't matter to a man who commands an empire built on intimidation and fear, yet this simple curve of her lips feels more significant than any business conquest.

This unexpected friendship between them has become a fixture in the previously solemn household over the past two weeks. Every morning after breakfast, Zina seeks out Wil, and they spend hours together in the greenhouse or library or walking the grounds. The estate feels different with their feminine presence, less like a fortress and more like the home it was meant to be.

I resist the urge to join them, knowing my presence would only reintroduce tension. Instead, I observe from a distance, learning more about Wil through the way she interacts with my sister than I could through direct interrogation. I've discovered she laughs with her whole body when genuinely amused. She touches plants with reverence, as if communicating with living beings. She listens intently, her head tilted slightly when absorbing new information.

She’s also starting to show. I long to put my hand on her belly, but I don’t bother to ask, sure she’d rebuff me.

A knock at the door interrupts my observations. Fedor enters without waiting for permission, a habit that increasingly grates on my nerves.

"The Italians are waiting in the conference room." He approaches my desk, glancing briefly out the window to where Wil and Zina now examine flowering shrubs. "Fifteen minutes already. Not the best way to start negotiations."

I turn from the window reluctantly. "They can wait. Punctuality isn't a virtue in our business."

"True, but there's a difference between strategic lateness and distraction." He adjusts his gold cufflinks, a nervous habit I've noticed increasing lately. "The Moretti family doesn't take well to perceived disrespect."

---