Page 45 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Before I can formulate a response, Zina returns with tea, effectively ending our unexpectedly intimate conversation. I use the interruption to excuse myself, citing the warehouse opening that requires my presence.

"Will you be gone long?" Wil's question surprises me again.

"Just the evening. Leonid will remain on the premises if you need anything."

She nods, something unreadable in her expression. "Be careful."

The simple phrase, so commonplace in normal relationships, strikes me with unexpected force. When was the last time someone other than Zina expressed concern for my safety? Not for what my death would mean for the organization or the power vacuum it would create, but for me as a person? "Always."

I spend the remainder of the afternoon preparing for the warehouse event, reviewing security protocols and finalizing arrangements, but Wil's question lingers in my thoughts. What do I need? The honest answer feels dangerous even to contemplate.

As evening approaches, I’m drawn to my bedroom rather than immediately departing for Brighton. The room represents the one space, even more so than my office, that truly reflects me rather than the image I project to the world. Unlike the overt opulence of the public areas, this space contains personal touches. There are books I've actually read, mementos with genuine meaning, and photographs I keep for memory rather than to impress people.

I open the carved wooden box on my dresser, removing the most precious item it contains. I swallow hard when I see the faded photograph of my mother holding infant Zina, with me standing solemn-faced beside them. My father took the picture mere weeks before my mother's death, one of the few tangible proofs that we were once something resembling a normal family.

An impulse seizes me, unusual and risky. Before I can reconsider, I leave my room and walk down the corridor to knock softly on Wil's door, where she rests after her appointment.

"I want to show you something, if you're feeling up to it?"

Curiosity overcomes whatever hesitation she might feel. "What is it?"

"Something few people have seen." I extend my hand in invitation. "Will you come with me?"

After a moment's consideration, she nods, rising carefully from her resting position. "All right."

18

Wil

Ifollow Mak through the mansion's winding corridors, my curiosity piqued by his unexpected invitation. There remains a careful distance between us, an invisible boundary neither has dared to cross.

Until tonight.

I walk silently beside him, escorted by Orlov and Yakov at a respectful distance. Their presence has become a constant in my new life, though I've learned to almost forget they're there. Almost.

Mak leads me into the west wing of the mansion, an area I haven't yet explored. The décor shifts subtly here. There are fewer ostentatious displays of wealth and more personal touches. A painting hanging in the corridor catches my attention. It’s a landscape of what appears to be a Russian countryside in winter.

"My mother painted that," he says, noticing my interest. "She was talented, though she never pursued it professionally."

"It's beautiful." I study the careful brushstrokes, and the attention to detail in the snow-laden branches. "You never mentioned she was an artist."

"There are many things I haven't mentioned." He continues down the hallway, stopping finally before a heavy wooden door. "This is my private residence within the estate. No one enters without explicit permission, not even the cleaning staff."

The statement carries weight beyond its simple meaning. He's offering access to a space he keeps fiercely protected, just as Zina described him protecting her throughout childhood.

"Why show me?" The question emerges before I can consider its bluntness.

He unlocks the door, his expression unreadable. "Because you asked for truth without calculation. This is part of that truth."

He pushes open the door, standing aside to let me enter first. I step into the room, and it different it feels far different than the rest of the mansion. It’s more personal. More human.

"This isn't what I expected," I say, moving farther into the space as he shuts the door, leaving Orlov and Yakov on the other side.

"What did you expect?"

I run my fingers along the spine of a leather-bound volume on his bookshelf. "More intimidation. Less literature."

A slight smile touches his lips. "Contrary to popular belief, crime lords occasionally read."

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