Page 64 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Wil

Istand at the kitchen window, cradling a mug of ginger tea between my palms while watching the sun over the ocean. The babies stir inside me, their movements growing stronger each week as they develop from the tiny bean-shaped images on that first ultrasound to distinct little people with their own patterns and personalities, even in the womb.

My fingers trace absentminded circles over the stretched skin of my belly, responding to a particularly vigorous kick from Baby A, the most active of the five, unless he’s swapped positions with a sibling. "Good morning to you too," I whisper, allowing myself a small smile despite the heaviness that has settled over me since arriving at this isolated coastal property three weeks ago.

The sound of tires on gravel draws my attention to the driveway, where a familiar black sedan pulls up alongside the house. My heart accelerates with the irrational hope that accompanies every arrival, even though logic tells me Mak won’t be stepping out of that car. The disappointment when Leonid emerges alone is no less acute for being expected, and I turn away from the window, unwilling to watch him approach the house with whatever news has brought him here unannounced.

Zina appears in the doorway moments later, her dark hair tied back in a practical ponytail, and her expression carefully neutral as she observes me. "Leonid is here. He says he needs to speak with us both."

Something in her tone makes me look up sharply, a cold dread settling in my stomach that has nothing to do with morning sickness. "What's happened?"

She shakes her head slightly, a gesture so reminiscent of her brother that my chest constricts painfully. "He wouldn't say until we were both present."

When he appears in the kitchen doorway, his face tells me everything before he speaks a single word. His normally impassive features are drawn with a gravity I’ve never seen before, and for the first time since I have known this stoic man, he seems uncertain how to proceed.

"What is it?" Zina's voice cracks slightly, betraying the fear she tries to conceal. "Is it the Kazanovs? Have they found us?"

He shakes his head, moving his gaze between us before settling on me with uncharacteristic gentleness. "There was an explosion at the Eclipse nightclub in Manhattan last night. The building collapsed entirely."

The mug slips from my suddenly numb fingers, shattering on the tile floor and splashing tea across my bare feet, but I barely register the heat or the broken ceramic. My mind struggles to process his words, refusing to make the connection that’s already causing Zina to grip the kitchen counter for support.

"Mak?" Her question is hard to hear.

"Makari was inside, meeting with Colombian distributors." Leonid's voice maintains its professional detachment, but his eyes betray the emotion he normally conceals. "The explosion occurred in the basement and structural supports. The building... There were no survivors from the VIP section."

The words echo meaninglessly around me as the room begins to tilt and spin. A strange, high-pitched ringing fills my ears as my knees buckle beneath me. I collapse not gradually but all at once, as if someone has cut the strings holding me upright. The sound that tears from my throat is primal and unfamiliar even to my own ears. It’s not a scream or a sob but something more elemental, the raw vocalization of a pain too profound for words.

Zina reaches me first, encircling me in her arms as we both sink to the floor among the broken ceramic and spilled tea. Her body shakes against mine, her grief as potent as my own, and through the haze of shock, I feel a distant relief that she’s here, that neither of us must bear this moment alone.

"It can't be true," I manage to say between ragged breaths that refuse to fill my lungs properly. "He can't be?—"

The word "dead" sticks in my throat, refusing to be spoken aloud, as if my denial might somehow alter reality. Mak, with his imposing presence and carefully controlled power, seems too substantial to simply cease existing. The man who commanded rooms with a glance, who built an empire through will and calculation, who survived countless attempts on his life before I even knew him—how could he be gone?

"We received confirmation from multiple sources." Leonid kneels beside us, his usual stoicism cracking to reveal genuine sorrow. "The authorities are still recovering...remains. DNA testing will take time, but eyewitnesses confirmed his presence inside just before the explosion."

"Who did this?" Zina's question cuts through her tears, a sudden hardness entering her voice that reminds me forcefully of her brother. "Was it the Kazanovs?"

Leonid hesitates, smoothing his expression into careful neutrality. "Initial reports from Ivan Petrov suggest Kazanov involvement, but nothing’s confirmed. Fedor survived. He had stepped outside moments before the explosion. He’s already working to stabilize the organization and promising retribution."

The mention of Fedor sends a chill through me despite the warmth of the kitchen. Something about the timing feels wrong, with Mak sending us away to safety, then dying less than a week later in what was surely not a random attack. The coincidence is too convenient, too perfectly timed to throw everything into chaos.

The thought slips away as grief overwhelms suspicion when the reality begins to sink in. Mak is truly gone, regardless of who orchestrated it or why. The father of my children, the complex man I had only just begun to understand, has been ripped away before we could resolve what lay between us. Our last night together, with the argument, the desperate lovemaking, and the promises whispered against my skin suddenly bears the unbearable mark of finality.

"I need to see," I whisper, though I’m not entirely certain what I mean. To see the news reports? The site of the explosion? His body? All feel equally impossible and necessary.

Leonid nods as if he anticipated this, reaching for a tablet in his jacket. "The news coverage is extensive. I thought you might want..."

He trails off, uncertain how to finish the sentence, but I take the tablet with trembling hands. The screen displays a news website with footage of what remains of the Eclipse—a smoldering crater of twisted metal and concrete, with emergency vehicles surrounding the perimeter. The headline reads: "NIGHTCLUB EXPLOSION CLAIMS RUSSIAN BUSINESS MOGUL AND A DOZEN MORE."

Zina looks away, unable to bear the images, but I force myself to absorb every detail, searching for...what? Evidence that it's a mistake? Proof that Mak somehow escaped? The desperation of my hope shames me even as I cling to it.

The next hours pass in a blur of numbness and overwhelming emotion. I oscillate between hysterical sobbing that leaves my throat raw and my pregnant body aching with the strain, and a detached calm that frightens Zina more than my tears. When Dr. Wilson arrives for an unscheduled appointment, probably called by Zina, he administers a mild sedative after noting my elevated blood pressure and the stress evident in my physical state.

"The babies need you calm," he says gently as he helps me to the bedroom, speaking in the same soothing tone I once used with anxious mothers in the NICU. "Grief is natural, but your body is already under tremendous strain carrying quintuplets. You must rest."

The medication pulls me under into a fitful sleep filled with fragmented dreams of Mak reaching for me through flames, his voice calling my name as walls collapse around him. Each time I jolt awake, disoriented and gasping, reality crashes back with renewed brutality. He’s gone.

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