Page 51 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

That night,when Wil curls against me in the darkness of my bedroom, I hold her closer than usual, spreading my hand protectively over her growing belly. I don't mention the confrontation with Fedor or the potential dangers his ambition creates. Instead, I listen as she discusses her plans for the greenhouse's expansion, nodding in all the right places while calculating risk assessments and security protocols.

"You're distracted tonight," she says, propping herself up on one elbow to study my face in the dim light. "Trouble at work?"

"Nothing unusual." I stroke her hair, drawing her back down against my chest. "Just routine business concerns."

I hate lying to her, but I can't bring myself to taint this fragile peace we've established with the violence that always lurks just beneath the surface of my world. For now, at least, I'll keep these darker realities separate from the quiet space we've created in this room.

As Wil drifts to sleep in my arms, I remain awake, planning contingencies and identifying vulnerabilities. Loving her openly is a risk, but losing her is unthinkable. Whatever comes next, I'll be ready.

20

Wil

Afew days later, I stare out the tinted window of the SUV as Manhattan's skyline comes into view, and my chest constricts with anticipation and anxiety. This is my first trip outside the estate since arriving almost two months ago. The city looks both familiar and foreign, a reminder of the normal life I once led that now seems to belong to someone else entirely.

Orlov glances back from the front passenger seat, his gaze briefly meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "We'll arrive in approximately ten minutes." His attention immediately returns to scanning our surroundings, gaze constantly moving between mirrors and windows.

My hands rest protectively on my belly, now noticeably rounded at sixteen weeks with quintuplets. The growth seems to have accelerated in the past week, my body shifting and stretching to accommodate five fetuses. Dr. Phillips noted the development during her last visit to the estate's medical suite, recommending today's specialized appointment.

Mak had been insistent while arranging this excursion. "Dr. Phillips has the basics covered at the estate, but for this level of detail, with microvalve development and rhythm differentiation between five fetuses, you need a pediatric cardiologist with a million-dollar scanner."

The medical professional in me couldn't argue with his logic. Advanced fetal echocardiography requires specialized equipment and expertise, particularly for high-order multiples, where heart defects occur with greater frequency. My years in the NICU have shown me too many tiny babies struggling with cardiac issues that could have been identified prenatally.

Still, the security arrangements for this simple medical appointment border on absurd. Three identical black SUVs form our convoy. One ahead, one behind, and ours in the middle. Six armed men accompany us, not counting the Orlov and Yakov. Mak himself would have come if not for an unavoidable meeting with international suppliers.

Orlov checks something on his phone, his shoulders relaxing marginally. "The clinic has been secured. Dr. Reisner's credentials have been verified twice. The building's security protocols exceed hospital standards."

I nod absently, knowing these assurances are meant to comfort me. Instead, they serve as reminders of the dangerous world I now inhabit, where routine prenatal care requires military-level security operations.

The private medical facility occupies the top floor of a nondescript office building in Midtown. We bypass the main entrance, driving instead into an underground parking garage, where two more security personnel await our arrival. The excessive protection measures that once seemed paranoid now feel almost normal, a disturbing realization I try to push aside.

The elevator opens directly into a reception area decorated with the tasteful restraint that suggests astronomical fees. No other patients wait in the plush seating area. The receptionist makes eye contact the moment I step off the elevator, greeting me by name without requesting identification, another indication of Mak's thorough arrangements.

She rises from behind her desk with a white smile. "Dr. Reisner is ready for you, Ms. Lamb. Right this way."

Dr. Reisner, a pediatric cardiologist with impeccable credentials according to Mak's research, proves to be a no-nonsense woman in her early sixties, with short gray hair and penetrating eyes behind stylish glasses. She reviews my file while a technician prepares the advanced imaging equipment.

She glances up from her tablet, clinically assessing me over the rim of her glasses. "Five fetuses. Quite remarkable. Naturally conceived?"

"Yes."

She makes a note, seemingly unimpressed by the statistical improbability. "Any family history of congenital heart defects?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

Her stylus pauses over the screen. "And the father?"

The question catches me unprepared, though it shouldn't. Of course, she needs complete medical history for both parents. "I don't know his family history. His mother didn’t die from heart disease, and I don’t think his father did either. I don’t know anything about extended family."

Dr. Reisner's expression remains perfectly neutral, free of the judgment I'd feared. "Not uncommon in my practice. We'll work with what we have."

The examination room contains equipment far more sophisticated than anything available at the estate. The ultrasound machine alone looks more like something from a science fiction film than a medical device, with multiple monitors and specialized transducers designed specifically for cardiac visualization.

Dr. Reisner gestures toward the examination table as the technician finishes preparations. "This will take significantly longer than a standard ultrasound. We'll examine each fetus individually, assessing all four chambers, valves, and major vessels. With quintuplets, we're looking at nearly two hours."

"That's fine." My nurse's appreciation for thoroughness overrides any concerns about discomfort. "I want the most complete information possible."

She applies the warm gel to my exposed belly, now prominently rounded despite being only four months along. The pressure of the transducer feels familiar, but the image that appears on the high-definition screen takes my breath away. The clarity surpasses anything from previous ultrasounds, revealing extraordinary detail of the first baby—labeled "A" on the monitor.

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