Page 46 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

His humor delights me almost as much as the room itself. I continue exploring, examining titles ranging from Russian classics to modern American fiction, ancient philosophy to contemporary political theory. A chessboard sits by the window, a game apparently in progress against an unseen opponent.

"Zina," he says, following my gaze. "We play by text when I'm traveling. She's winning this round."

The room opens into a bedroom beyond, visible through partially open double doors. I glimpse a large bed with simple linens, more bookshelves, and what appears to be a collection of antique weapons displayed on one wall. Everything about this space contradicts the cold, impersonal image Mak presents to the world.

He moves to a dresser near the window, opening a carved wooden box with careful movements. "This is what I wanted to show you."

From inside, he removes a photograph, the edges worn with handling. He passes it to me with an almost reverent touch. The image shows a beautiful dark-haired woman holding an infant, with a solemn-faced boy of about eight standing beside them. The resemblance is unmistakable. Mak's eyes remain unchanged despite the decades between this image and now.

"My mother and Zina," he says softly. "This was taken a few weeks before she was killed."

I study the photograph carefully, recognizing Zina's smile in her mother's face, seeing the watchful protectiveness in young Mak's posture even then. "You were already guarding them, even as a child."

His expression shifts, surprise flickering briefly. "Yes. I suppose I was."

"What was she like?" I ask, still looking at the woman whose murder shaped the man standing before me.

"Kind but fierce when necessary. She loved poetry and gardening and early morning thunderstorms." His voice softens with memory. "She taught me chess and made me memorize Pushkin and refused to let my father's business intrude on family dinners."

The description paints a picture of normality I hadn't expected with Mak's upbringing. "She and Zina were the last good things in my life," he says quietly, a vulnerability in his voice I've never heard before. "Until now."

His gaze drops to my slightly rounded belly, and the inference steals my breath. These babies have become something precious to him, something beyond power struggles and territorial disputes. The realization shifts something fundamental in how I see him.

I return the photograph to his hands, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The brief contact sends an unexpected current through me, a physical awareness I've been fighting since our night together months ago.

The tension between us has finally boiled over as weeks of careful distance and cautious interactions dissolve in the intimate space of his bedroom, where his true self is on display. I can no longer deny the complicated pull that I feel toward this man who contains multitudes—the ruthlessBratvaboss, who kills without hesitation, the protective brother, who sacrificed his own innocence for Zina's, and now, the uncertain father-to-be, who looks at me with a vulnerability that makes my heart ache.

My pregnancy hormones have intensified every emotion and sensation, making me hyperaware of his proximity as he stands before me, waiting for me to make the next move. When I step forward and place my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate beneath the expensive fabric, the last threads of my resistance snap. It's not just lust but a need for intimacy that transcends our complicated circumstances.

He touches my face with surprising gentleness and pulls me in for a kiss. Our lips meet tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence as the walls between us crumble. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance that I readily grant. The kiss deepens gradually, his movements deliberately restrained as if giving me every opportunity to pull away.

"Do you want this?" he whispers against my lips, his breath warm and tinged with expensive scotch. His consideration contradicts everything I thought I knew about him. He commands through force but is now seeking explicit permission.

Words feel inadequate for what's happening between us. My answer is to guide his hand to my slightly rounded belly, where our children grow beneath his palm. The gesture communicates what I can't articulate. It’s an acknowledgment of the connection already forged between us, regardless of our conflicted feelings.

His eyes darken with desire and something deeper, more profound. He captures my mouth again, the kiss hungrier now. He slides his hands beneath my blouse, tracing patterns on my bare skin with exquisite patience. I fumble with his shirt buttons, suddenly clumsy with anticipation. He helps me, deft fingers making quick work of the obstacles between us.

Mak is raw and intense as clothing falls away. His chest is broad and muscled, but what captures my attention is the map of scars across his torso that tell stories of his violent past. A jagged line curves across his ribs, a star-shaped mark mars his left shoulder, and smaller marks are scattered across his skin like a constellation of past violence. I've seen these marks before during our first night, but now, knowing more about the man, they carry different meaning.

"Were these from business disagreements too?" I trace the largest scar gently, remembering his deflection during our night at the hotel months ago.

He presses my palm flat against the raised tissue. "Some. Others from my father's lessons." His honesty is unvarnished. "He believed pain was the most effective teacher."

The admission creates an ache in my chest for the boy in the photograph, solemn-eyed and already carrying too much responsibility. I rise on my toes to press my lips to the scar, a gesture of comfort for wounds inflicted decades ago.

My touch seems to ignite something within him. He lifts me with ease, carrying me to the massive bed that dominates the room. The sheets are cool against my heated skin as he lays me down with reverent care. He stands back momentarily, his gaze traveling over my half-dressed form with such intense focus that I feel it like a physical touch.

"You are magnificent," he says, the words thick with his Russian accent.

I should feel self-conscious as he helps me remove my remaining clothes, but the naked hunger in his eyes transforms potential embarrassment into empowerment. He looks at me like I'm a miracle, not despite the changes pregnancy has wrought but because of them.

When he sheds his remaining clothing, I'm reminded again of his power—not just the social power of his position but the physical power evident in every hard plane and defined muscle. His cock stands proudly erect, thick and flushed with desire. The sight sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs, my body remembering precisely how he feels inside my pussy.

He joins me on the bed, careful not to rest his weight on my belly as he stretches out alongside me. When he touches me, he is passionate but deliberate, treating my changing body with reverence. His hands explore with methodical patience, rediscovering terrain mapped months ago but transformed now by pregnancy.

"You're even more beautiful now," he murmurs, his accent thickening with desire as his palm cups my breast. "Full of life. Radiant."

My nipples have become almost painfully sensitive with pregnancy, and when his mouth closes over one peaked bud, I arch off the bed with a sharp cry. He smiles against my skin, clearly pleased with my response. His tongue circles the sensitive tip while his hand teases its twin, creating identical points of exquisite sensation.

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