Page 59 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Istand at the window of my study, watching the unmarked sedan disappear down the service road, taking Wil and Zina away from the estate and away from me. The rising sun catches on the car's retreating form before it vanishes around a bend, leaving only an empty driveway and manicured grounds. Their absence creates an immediate void, a silence that seems to echo through the mansion that suddenly feels too large, too empty, and too meaningless.

For a long moment, I remain motionless, memorizing the last glimpse of the vehicle carrying everything I never knew I wanted until it was too late. Then I turn away, crossing the estate with swift, purposeful strides that send staff scurrying from my path. No one dares meet my gaze or offer morning pleasantries. They recognize the cold mask of thepakhanhas returned, perhaps more terrifying for its brief absence during the weeks Wil shared my bed.

In my bedroom—our bedroom, for that brief, precious time—I permit myself exactly one hour of private grief. I lock the door, a luxury of weakness I rarely allow, and catalog the traces of Wil's presence that linger mockingly. There's a forgotten hair tie on the nightstand. The subtle scent of her shampoo lingers on my pillows when I lift them to my face, and a dog-eared pregnancy book she'd been reading is still open to a chapter on fetal development at sixteen weeks. Her absence feels like a physical wound, raw and bleeding beneath my carefully controlled exterior.

For fifty-nine minutes, I allow the pain to wash over me in waves. Not just the loss of Wil, though that cuts deepest, but the accumulated losses of a lifetime—my mother's murder, my childhood sacrificed to violence, and the humanity I surrendered piece by piece to become the leader my father demanded. In the privacy of these walls, I acknowledge the price I've paid and recognize the cost was too high.

When the hour ends, I lock it all away. Grief, regret, and longing are all sealed behind the walls I've spent a lifetime building. I emerge from my quarters with cold purpose, my expression so forbidding that a maid actually drops her cleaning supplies when I round a corner unexpectedly.

I have no time for wallowing in self-pity or regret. The attack on Wil in broad daylight has confirmed my worst suspicions, and my cousin's role in it can no longer be ignored. What I initially took for simple ambition has transformed into something far more dangerous. Fedor hasn't just been questioning my leadership. I believe he's been actively undermining me and putting Wil and our unborn children directly in harm's way to weaken me as a distraction for his takeover. I hope I'm wrong, but I don't think I am.

"Leonid." I step into the security office without knocking. "My study. Now."

He follows without question, his expression carefully neutral until the door closes behind us. "They arrived at the first checkpoint safely. Thirty minutes ahead of schedule."

I nod once, acknowledging but not discussing this information. Personal matters must wait. "The attack yesterday. Show me everything you've compiled."

For the next three hours, we review surveillance footage from multiple angles, tracking the movements of Wil's attackers backward through the city. Leonid has been thorough, identifying license plates, faces, and connections that paint a disturbing picture. The men weren't random thugs, or even standard Kazanov foot soldiers. They were specialized contractors, the kind used for particularly sensitive operations, where deniability is essential.

"This one." I tap the screen, freezing on a face partially visible beneath a baseball cap. "I've seen him before."

"Lev Sokolov." He pulls up a file. "Former Spetsnaz. He now works mostly for a handler within the Petrov network, but the Petrovs have no quarrel with us currently. He still freelances."

"Someone hired them through intermediaries." I study the image, memorizing every detail. "This level of operational security suggests serious resources and planning. Not a typical Kazanov move."

"No. Their methods are usually more direct."

The implication hangs between us like a noose, neither willing to voice the suspicion aloud without absolute proof. If the attack didn't originate with our known enemies, then the threat comes from within. The only person with both motive and resources to orchestrate such a betrayal is my own cousin. "Pull the financial records for the past six months. I want data for all accounts, including the offshore holdings." I meet his gaze directly. "Do it quietly."

He nods, understanding the gravity of what I'm asking. Investigating family is the gravest breach ofBratvaprotocol, perhaps second only to betraying family. If I'm wrong, the consequences to our organization's stability would be severe if word leaked out. If I'm right, the damage is already done.

* * *

For the next three days,I work tirelessly, sleeping only in short bursts between reviewing the evidence Leonid compiles. Financial records show odd transfers through a purposefully confusing array of shell companies. Communication logs reveal encrypted messages sent from an IP address within the estate during key planning periods. Surveillance footage captures brief meetings with known Kazanov intermediaries that never appeared in Fedor's official reports.

The pattern becomes undeniable. Small inconsistencies align into a damning picture of treachery so profound that even I, who have never fully trusted anyone in our world since my mother's death, feel the sting of betrayal. Fedor, who grew up alongside me, who shared blood and history and secrets, has been systematically undermining my position for months.

The final confirmation comes on the third night. Leonid places a laptop before me, his expression grimmer than I've ever seen. "The Brooklyn apartment attack. We recovered deleted security footage from a convenience store across the street."

The grainy video shows a black SUV identical to those in our fleet parking near Wil's former building. Two men emerge, faces carefully turned from cameras, but one speaks briefly into a phone before entering. The timestamp matches exactly with the night Gisele died.

"Audio enhancement from another camera picked up part of the conversation." Leonid plays the clip, the sound a barely audible but unmistakable exchange between two men.

"Target confirmed...

“Proceed as ordered for execution...”

“No witnesses..." The voice they’re speaking to belongs to Mikhail, Fedor's personal security chief.

Rage unlike anything I've ever experienced courses through me, a white-hot inferno that threatens to consume rational thought. I grip the edge of my desk until the wood creaks beneath my fingers, fighting for control. "They weren't there to kidnap her," I say, the realization crystallizing with terrible clarity. "They were there to eliminate her before the pregnancy became widely known. They always planned to kill Gisele too, in order to eliminate witnesses."

Leonid nods, his usual impassivity cracking slightly. "Based on the communications we've intercepted, Fedor learned about the pregnancy the same day when you reluctantly told him. He ordered the hit immediately, viewing her as a threat to his ambitions."

The thought of Gisele's death being collateral damage in Fedor's bold move against me sends fresh fury coursing through my veins. More than that, the knowledge that he targeted Wil, planning to murder her and our unborn children, awakens something primal and merciless within me.

I could kill him now. One word to Leonid, and Fedor would disappear before morning. The satisfaction would be immediate, and the vengeance appropriate to his betrayal, but the consequences would ripple outward, creating new dangers for Wil and our children. TheBratvadoesn't tolerate internal bloodshed without repercussions. Factions would form, allies would question my stability, and enemies would seize the opportunity to strike.

No, Fedor's death alone solves nothing. The entire system that allows men like him to exist, to target innocents for the sake of power, must be dismantled. The empire I've spent my life building must burn if Wil and our children are ever to be truly safe. I can't stop this sort of corruption everywhere, but I can end it here in my city, at least for now. In the process, it will extract me from it permanently if everything goes to plan

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