Page 63 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

He moves farther into the room, the muzzle of his weapon cutting methodically through the air. He checks behind the counters, opens the walk-in fridge, and shoves aside a prep table with unnecessary force but still nothing.

The dumbwaiter motor kicks in with a grinding groan. The shaft trembles as it begins its descent, the platform shuddering beneath me with every inch it lowers. I press myself tighter into the shadowed corner of the compartment and hold my breath.

Mikhail stiffens.

He hears it.

His head snaps toward the shaft just as I slip beneath the kitchen level.

I catch the blur of his movement through the wooden slats—a shadow turning sharply, boots pivoting as he crosses the floor.

He’s coming straight for the dumbwaiter, but it’s too late. By the time he reaches the opening, I’m gone, swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel. He might notice the dust disturbed along the track or hear the groan of the pulley fading into the depths, but he never saw me clearly enough. It won’t matter, because some of the explosives are in the kitchen, and he’ll be blown apart in the next few seconds. We rigged this area to blow too, wanting to hide any evidence of the escape tunnel. I fully expect Fedor to slither away, but he’ll have to make do without his hulking sidekick from now on.

The dumbwaiter lurches to a halt in the basement. I kick open the narrow door and tumble out onto the concrete floor. Lev and Sasha are already waiting with weapons drawn, tense and alert for any pursuit.

“Move,” I say, and together, we sprint for the tunnel entrance, just as the world above us begins to explode with a force that seems to compress the air in my lungs, the first blast rocking the foundation and sending us staggering against the rough stone walls. Ceiling tiles crash down around us and pipes burst with hissing urgency, spraying water and steam in blinding clouds that fill the narrow corridor with chaotic energy.

The second and third explosions come in rapid succession, precisely as planned, the carefully placed charges systematically dismantling the building from the inside out with controlled destruction that cascades through the structure while minimizing casualties on the upper floors.

We reach the tunnel entrance as the final, largest explosion rips through the main floor directly above us, the shockwave throwing us forward into the dark passage as the ceiling behind us collapses in a thunderous avalanche of concrete and steel, sealing our escape route and any possibility of pursuers following our trail.

For several minutes, we lie in darkness, breathing dust-filled air as aftershocks rumble through the ground above us, and debris continues to settle with ominous creaks and groans. Eventually, Lev clicks on a flashlight, the beam cutting through thick dust to illuminate our pale, dirt-covered faces.

"Everyone intact?" I ask, taking inventory of my own body and finding nothing broken, though my ears ring painfully from the blast's concussive force.

They nod, rising shakily to their feet, and we move swiftly through the narrow tunnel, navigating by the beam of Lev's flashlight through a passage that smells of damp earth and mildew, untouched for decades until Leonid had the forethought to make these preparations in the event we ever needed a hasty, hidden escape from the club. I remind myself to wire him a large bonus for thinking ahead once we’re out of here.

After twenty minutes of silent progress, we reach a metal ladder leading upward to a rusted hatch, and together, we shove the manhole cover up and out of our way. We emerge three blocks from the Eclipse, inside a maintenance shed for the old subway line, exactly as planned in our meticulous preparations.

Leonid waits with a nondescript van, engine running, his expression betraying none of the tension the situation warrants. "It's done. The building collapsed exactly as designed. First responders are already declaring it a mass casualty event, which would have been far worse if there hadn’t been a plumbing leak that evacuated most of the guests." He gives me a brief, satisfied smile. “The club was destroyed, but casualties were confined to the VIP level…and I heard someone say the basement level was also destroyed.”

I nod. “Mikhail would have been right there when it happened.” I don’t have to worry about him telling Fedor I might have escaped. Relief fills me. "And Fedor?" I accept a bottle of water and a towel to wipe the dust from my face, the grit between my teeth a reminder of how close I came to joining the real casualties.

"Escaped through a service exit. He’s already making calls, assuming control of operations."

Perfect. Let him believe he orchestrated my death, unaware he's merely a puppet dancing on strings I've carefully arranged for his inevitable downfall. He has no idea our explosives replaced his at this point in time. He’ll likely assume the mercs he hired to install them botched the timer, making them go off too soon. By the time he realizes, if he ever does, the next phase will be in place.

We drive in silence to a safehouse on the outskirts of the city, a modest apartment in a building owned by a shell corporation five layers removed from any Vorobev connection. The television is already on when we arrive, every channel showing helicopter footage of the Eclipse, which is now a smoldering crater of twisted metal and shattered glass, where a cathedral-turned-nightclub once stood.

"Breaking news from Manhattan," announces the reporter, her voice tight with controlled excitement that barely masks the ghoulish fascination disasters create. "A massive explosion has destroyed the newly reopened Eclipse nightclub. Sources confirm Russian business magnate Makari Vorobev was meeting with associates when the blast occurred. Authorities presume all inside have perished, though recovery efforts continue. Preliminary reports suggest a possible gas leak, but investigators haven't ruled out foul play."

Footage cuts to a reporter interviewing a shell-shocked witness, a young woman with mascara streaked down her cheeks. "It was like a bomb went off. The whole building just... collapsed."

Another channel shows Fedor arriving at the scene, his performance impeccable, face ashen, movements frantic as he demands information from first responders, his grief appearing genuine to anyone who doesn't know him as I do.

"They're reporting at least fifteen fatalities," says Leonid, passing me a secure tablet showing police communications. "Body parts make exact counting difficult."

The parts and bodies come from unclaimed bodies discreetly diverted from city morgues. Their dental records were altered or replaced with ours in advance, ensuring when authorities conducted forensic identification, the results would be indisputable. DNA samples, carefully planted, will complete the illusion. Their families—where applicable, though most were unclaimed John Does bound for a pauper’s burial—will receive generous, untraceable compensation.

"Phase one complete," I say, accepting a change of clothes from Sasha, the simple jeans and hoodie a vast divergence from the designer suit now covered in dust and debris from my former life. "We begin dismantling operations tomorrow."

That night, in quarters far less luxurious than those I've known most of my life, I remove the ultrasound image of my five children from my coat pocket. The paper is creased now, smudged with dust from the explosion, but their tiny shapes remain clear in the clear image from the cardiologist’s machine that captures the miracle Wil and I created together.

I trace each one with my fingertip, marveling at the tiny hands and feet visible even at this early stage, and for the first time in my life, destruction brings not just satisfaction but hope. Each piece of the Vorobev empire that falls creates space for something new to grow in its place—something untainted by blood and fear.

The man I was is truly dead now, the monster my father created finally laid to rest alongside the organization that demanded his existence, and from these ashes, perhaps a father worthy of Wil and our children might emerge.

24

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