Page 67 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

The words come hesitantly at first, then with increasing fluidity as I describe the Mak I knew. "He had nightmares too," I say, remembering how I would sometimes wake to find him standing at the window, shoulders rigid with tension from whatever demons pursued him in sleep. "He never spoke of them, but I think they were about his childhood. Your grandfather wasn’t a kind man."

The talking helps, just as Dr. Wilson suggested. Speaking Mak's name aloud, and describing him to the children who will never know him directly, somehow makes the loss more bearable. I’m not erasing him or pretending he never existed but preserving his memory in the only way I can.

That evening, as Zina and I prepare dinner together in the safehouse kitchen, I share stories about Mak that make her laugh despite her grief.

"He actually said that?" She nearly drops the knife she's using to chop vegetables when I describe Mak's confused reaction to my explanation of pregnancy hormones.

"Word for word." I smile at the memory of his bewildered expression. "'You're crying because the commercial showed a puppy? Is the puppy injured? Did something happen to the puppy?' He looked so alarmed."

"That sounds like him." She shakes her head fondly. "Completely fearless in the face of armed enemies but utterly lost when confronted with normal human emotions."

"He was learning though." The observation comes with a pang of what might have been. "He was trying to understand things outside his experience. That's more than most people ever attempt."

We fall into companionable silence, the shared memories of Mak creating a bridge between us that rises above our grief. Briefly, I can see beyond the immediate pain to the future that awaits us—a future where these children will know their father through our stories, where his legacy continues not through violence and fear but through the lives who carry his blood, and perhaps, the better parts of his nature.

As my body grows heavier with their development, I begin to find small moments of hope amid the grief. I plan how I'll tell each child apart, imagine first steps and words, and picture Zina as the aunt who will teach them languages and history. The future remains uncertain, but the tiny lives depending on me provide reason enough to continue moving forward, one difficult day at a time.

One night, as I prepare for bed, I remove the first ultrasound image from my nightstand drawer of all five babies together, their tiny forms barely distinguishable as human at that early stage. I trace each outline with my fingertip, marveling at how much they must have grown since then, developing distinct features and personalities even within the womb.

"I wish your father could see you now," I whisper, a familiar ache spreading through my chest at the thought of all Mak will miss—their birth, first smiles, first words, and all the milestones that parents treasure. "He would have been amazed by you."

The grief remains, a constant companion I suspect will never fully depart, but alongside it grows determination. These children deserve more than a mother consumed by sorrow. They deserve joy and security and the knowledge they were wanted, that their creation was the product of a connection that, however brief, contained genuine love.

25

Mak

The abandoned textile factory on the outskirts of Queens bears no resemblance to the luxury I've surrounded myself with for decades. Water stains mark the concrete ceiling, and the persistent drip from rusted pipes creates a metronomic backdrop to our operation. This decrepit industrial shell, invisible to the world that thinks me dead, has become the command center from which I systematically dismantle everything I spent fifteen years building.

I scratch at the beard I've grown as part of my disguise, the constant itch a minor irritation compared to the hollow ache of separation from Wil and Zina. Across the makeshift war room, Leonid, and the four lieutenants start to move. Computer screens illuminate their faces in the dim light, each display showing a different aspect of the Vorobev empire now crumbling under my deliberate assault.

"The Brighton Beach properties have been liquidated," Leonid says, placing another folder in the completed stack. "The funds were transferred through the Cayman shell corporations and reinvested in the legitimate holdings, as instructed."

I nod, examining the offshore account statements with clinical detachment. The empire that once defined me now represents nothing but columns of numbers to be redistributed, and assets to be converted into a future untainted by blood. "The shipping company?"

"Sale finalized yesterday. The German firm took the bait. They believe they're acquiring a simple import-export business with excellent Mediterranean connections." Leonid smiles. "They've no idea the routes were primarily used for weapons."

"And those weapons?"

"Disappeared. Some sold to third parties, and others surrendered anonymously to federal authorities through untraceable channels." He hesitates before adding, "Your cousin's been trying to locate the Atlantic City cache for three days."

I suppress a smile at the thought of Fedor's growing frustration. "He won't find it. The warehouse was emptied the night before Eclipse."

For a moment, silence falls as we both consider the massive explosion that officially ended Makari Vorobev's existence several weeks ago. The news coverage has finally begun to fade, though fascination with my "death" continues in certain circles. Conspiracy theories abound. Some claim Kazanov involvement, while others suggest internal betrayal. All are convenient distractions from the truth.

"We've an update from the safehouse." Leonid's voice pulls me from my thoughts, his tone carefully neutral as he hands me a tablet displaying Dr. Wilson's latest medical report. "All five fetuses developing normally. Goal delivery is thirty-two weeks, though with quintuplets, earlier delivery is possible."

I study the ultrasound images with hunger, searching for changes since the last report. The babies are more defined now, tiny fingers and facial features visible in the images. I fight the urge to trace their outlines on the screen, aware of Leonid's watchful presence. "And Wil?"

"Physically healthy, though her blood pressure remains elevated. Dr. Wilson notes continued sleep disturbances and symptoms of depression." Leonid pauses, weighing his next words. "She grieves you deeply."

The knowledge cuts deeper than any physical wound I've suffered. Each report confirming Wil's pain both sustains and torments me—evidence that her feelings run deeper than I dared hope, yet a reminder of the suffering my deception causes. I know the necessity of this separation, but understanding does nothing to ease the guilt.

"Zina's completed the nursery," Leonid says, offering this detail as a small comfort. "Five cribs arranged in a semicircle facing the ocean. She's painted a garden mural on one wall."

I close my eyes briefly, picturing my sister's artistic talent creating beauty for the children I've yet to meet, in a home I've never seen. "The garden was a good idea."

"Yes." His normally impassive face softens momentarily. "Wil spends hours on the beach since there’s no real garden at the safehouse."

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