Page 66 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

In the evenings, I often find myself drawn to the living room windows that face the ocean. The endless expanse of water provides a strange comfort, its constant motion and immensity somehow putting my pain into perspective. I’m not the first to love and lose, nor will I be the last. Countless others have stood at windows like this one, watching waves that existed long before their grief and will continue long after.

* * *

Four weeksafter Leonid's devastating news, I sit in this same spot, watching a storm gather on the horizon. The sky darkens with heavy clouds, and the waves grow wilder, crashing against the shore with increasing violence. The scene matches my mood—restless and turbulent, with pressure building toward some inevitable breaking point.

The nightmares have grown more vivid with each passing week. Sometimes, I see Mak reaching for me through flames, his voice calling my name as walls collapse around him. Other times, I dream of our children asking questions about a father they’ll never know, while I struggle to explain a man who was both monster and protector, criminal and lover. I wake from these dreams drenched in sweat, my heart racing as my hands instinctively search for him in the empty space beside me.

Tonight, after another troubled dream, I wander through the nursery Zina has painstakingly prepared. The room is peaceful in the pre-dawn darkness, with the five identical cribs arranged in a semicircle facing the window that overlooks the ocean. There are no name plaques yet because I haven’t figured out what to name them. It’s a decision I should be making with Mak, so I keep putting it off, though he’ll never be able to offer input. Tiny clothes sorted by size wait in labeled drawers, and a hand-painted mural of a garden stretches across one wall—Zina's tribute to the greenhouse Mak built for me, and a reminder of beauty in the midst of chaos.

My mother’s rosebush rests on the windowsill, brought by Leonid during one of his infrequent visits. It makes me think of the red rosebush Mak sent me after our night together that I threw away in front of him in my anger and grief after Gisele’s death. It seems somehow like foreshadowing that I left that plant behind to die—just like I eventually left Mak behind, and he died. It was to protect our babies, but it causes guilt and pain when these thoughts hit me.

I run my fingers along the edge of the nearest crib, imagining the tiny life that will soon occupy it. "Your father would have been so proud," I whisper to the empty room, the words catching painfully in my throat. "He was many things, not all of them good, but he wanted all five of you."

The admission brings unexpected comfort. Whatever else Mak was, however complicated our brief relationship, his love for our unborn children was genuine. I saw it in his eyes when he first learned about the pregnancy, felt it in his touch when he placed his hand on my growing belly, and heard it in his voice when he whispered to them in Russian, believing I was asleep and couldn't understand his tender promises.

"He called you his legacy," I tell the empty cribs, smiling slightly at the memory. "Not his empire or his wealth or his power, but you five. His true legacy."

Zina finds me there as morning light begins filtering through the curtains, sitting in the rocking chair beside the window with my hands resting on my belly.

"Bad dreams again?" she asks softly, leaning against the doorframe with shadows of sleeplessness beneath her own eyes.

I nod, not bothering to hide the evidence of tears on my cheeks. "I keep thinking there was something I missed, some sign or warning that might have prevented..." My voice trails off, unable to complete the thought.

She crosses the room and kneels beside the chair, her hand covering mine. "There was nothing you could have done, Wil. My brother’s choices were made for him long before he met you. The violence of his world... It was always going to end this way."

"Is that supposed to comfort me?" The question carries no heat, just weary acceptance of a truth I've been avoiding.

"No." Her honesty is refreshing in a world that has become shrouded in half-truths and comforting lies. "But understanding it might help you forgive yourself for surviving when he didn't."

The gentle accusation strikes closer to home than I want to admit. Part of my grief has been tangled with guilt that I left him behind, that our argument might have distracted him, or that I somehow contributed to whatever miscalculation led to his death. Irrational thoughts, but grief follows no rational path.

"I don't know how to do this without him," I say, voicing my deepest fear for the first time. "One baby would be challenge enough, but five? When they don't even have a father?"

"They have me." Zina's voice carries the same certainty I once heard in Mak's. "They have Leonid. They have a small army of Vorobev loyalists, who would die for Mak's children without hesitation."

"That's what terrifies me." I meet her gaze directly. "I don't want them growing up in a world where dying for someone is considered normal. I don't want security details and bulletproof glass and the constant fear that shadowed your childhood."

She doesn't flinch from the truth in my words. "Their birth alone makes them Vorobevs, Wil. We can change names and locations, but blood is blood. Some realities can't be escaped, only managed."

The practicality in her assessment reminds me so strongly of Mak that my heart contracts painfully. They share more than physical resemblance, including the same clear-eyed assessment of difficult situations, and the same unflinching acceptance of harsh realities.

"Then we'll manage it," I finally say, drawing strength from the determined set of her shoulders.

Later that day, Dr. Wilson arrives for my weekly checkup, his weathered face creasing with concern as he measures my blood pressure. "Still elevated," he notes, making a notation in my chart. "And you're not sleeping." It isn't a question, so I don't bother denying it.

The evidence is written in the dark circles beneath my eyes and the trembling of my hands. "The babies are active at night."

"The babies are active because you're stressed." He sits back, regarding me with the direct gaze of a man who has delivered thousands of infants and brooks no nonsense from anxious mothers. "Grief is understandable, Wil, but you're carrying five babies, who depend on your physical wellbeing. I need you to try harder."

The gentle reprimand cuts through my self-pity, reminding me of my responsibilities. I’m not just a grieving woman but a vessel for five developing humans, who didn't ask to be created in the midst of a mafia war. "What do you suggest?" I ask, straightening slightly in the examination chair.

"Mild sedatives would be my recommendation in a normal pregnancy, but with quintuplets..." He shakes his head slightly. "We need alternatives. Meditation, perhaps. Gentle exercise… And you need to talk about him."

I blink in surprise at the unexpected suggestion. "Talk about...Mak?"

"Bottled grief festers." He begins packing his medical bag with efficient movements. "Speak his name. Tell stories about him. Acknowledge what you've lost instead of trying to contain it."

The advice stays with me long after Dr. Wilson departs, echoing through my thoughts as I walk along the private beach that afternoon. The wind whips my hair around my face, and the sand shifts beneath my bare feet, providing natural resistance that Dr. Wilson assures me is excellent exercise.

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