Page 68 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

I hand the tablet back to him, forcing myself to refocus on the task at hand. Personal longing must wait. First, I have to complete this dismantling to ensure no enemies remain who might threaten my family's future. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can return to them—if Wil will have me after all I've put her through.

My plan unfolds with perfect precision, each piece falling exactly where anticipated. The power vacuum created by my "death" has thrown the entire ecosystem of New York's underworld into chaos, with rival families scrambling for territory while internal power struggles erupt among those who remain. Fedor, in his desperate attempt to control what he never fully understood, makes increasingly reckless decisions that alienate longtime allies.

By morning, three more laundering operations have been quietly shuttered, their assets liquidated and records destroyed. Using Leonid as an intermediary, since I’m officially dead, I call in debts from influential figures across the Eastern Seaboard—judges, politicians, and business leaders—who've benefited from Vorobev protection or financing over the years. These connections, once the backbone of my power, now serve a different purpose as I leverage them to sever ties permanently rather than transfer loyalty to new leadership.

"The accounts in Cyprus and Liechtenstein have been emptied," says Sasha, our financial specialist. "The funds are now rerouted through the established channels into the trusts for Wil and the children."

I nod in approval. These legitimate investments, established years ago during moments of longing for a different future, will support my family for generations without criminal connections. The irony doesn't escape me of blood money transformed into college funds and healthcare trusts for children who'll never know their father's true business, but it would be ridiculous to give it all away and consign my family to struggling.

Days blend together in our underground operation, my existence reduced to systematic destruction of everything I once valued. Every account and operation Fedor's ever touched is methodically uprooted, his new alliances undermined through anonymous tips to federal authorities or rival organizations. Weapons caches are dissolved, distribution networks are dismantled, and protection agreements are quietly terminated as I erase the Vorobev presence from New York's underworld like a cancer being excised.

The personal cost of this work manifests in small ways, like the growing tension in my shoulders, the headaches that come from too little sleep, and the way I sometimes catch myself staring at nothing, lost in memories of Wil's smile or Zina's laugh. I permit these moments of weakness only briefly before forcing myself back to the task at hand.

Soon, the first rumors surface. A bartender at a Brighton Beach establishment frequented byBratvasoldiers reports a customer claiming to have seen me alive. The story spreads through the underground networks like wildfire, dismissed by most as wishful thinking or alcohol-induced hallucination.

Fedor's reaction proves more interesting. Our surveillance captures his increasing paranoia as he interrogates the bartender personally, demanding descriptions and details with barely controlled fear disguised as skepticism. He begins executing suspected traitors without proof, alienating longtime allies with rash decisions that bear no resemblance to the leadership I cultivated for years.

The once-feared Vorobev name starts to become associated with unpredictability and brutal desperation—exactly as I anticipated when crafting this plan. Fedor destroys from within what I couldn't dismantle completely from without, his fear-driven leadership accelerating the organization's collapse.

"A string of sightings, but none are verifiable. A bartender swears he saw someone matching your build duck out the Eclipse’s side door before the explosion. Two captains say they’ve heard your voice on burner phones. Fedor doesn’t believe in coincidence anymore."

That’s the beauty of a well-fed rumor. It creates nothing concrete. Just enough smoke to send a man like Fedor chasing ghosts.

"He's demanding loyalty oaths from all captains," Leonid continues. "Anyone refusing is executed. He's lost six lieutenants this week—three to bullets, and three to desertion."

"He's imploding faster than anticipated." I can't keep satisfaction from coloring my tone.

* * *

Three days later,intercepted communications reveal Fedor's frantic attempts to verify rumors of my survival, his inquiries becoming increasingly desperate as more sightings are reported across the city. Each report is false—strategic misinformation spread by my remaining loyalists—but together, they form a pattern leading Fedor exactly where I want him.

The Eclipse nightclub, or what remains of it after the explosion, becomes the focal point of these rumors. Witnesses claim to see a figure resembling me moving through the ruins at night, while others report strange lights in the condemned structure. Urban legends form around my ghost haunting the location of my supposed death.

Fedor takes the bait precisely as anticipated.

"He's going tonight," Leonid says after monitoring Fedor's communications. "Alone, except for two bodyguards. He wants to see for himself."

I rise from my chair, checking the weight of the gun holstered beneath my jacket. "Then we shouldn't keep him waiting."

The ruins of the Eclipse stand as a monument to destruction, the once-opulent nightclub now a blackened skeleton of twisted metal and shattered glass. Yellow police tape cordons off the area, ignored by the homeless, who occasionally shelter in its periphery, and the curious, who come to photograph the famous disaster site. In darkness, it becomes a different place entirely—haunting and surreal, illuminated only by moonlight filtering through the skeletal remains of the roof.

I enter through what was once the service entrance but is now a jagged hole in crumbling concrete and make my way through debris-strewn corridors that bear no resemblance to their former elegance. Glass crunches beneath my boots despite my attempts at silence. The explosion spared the main floor, but smoke damage and structural instability left everything coated in soot and silence. The stage stands crooked, one corner buckled, and plaster peels from the ceiling in brittle curls.

I position myself behind what remains of the VIP section's back wall—what used to be an exclusive mezzanine before it partially collapsed in the blast. The charred remnants of luxury booths still cling to the perimeter. From here, I can see the main entrance without being immediately spotted. Leonid signals from his position across the room, confirming Fedor's arrival.

My cousin enters cautiously, his flanking bodyguards scanning the ruins with professional thoroughness. Fedor appears haggard, his normally impeccable appearance diminished by weeks of paranoia and stress. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his hand twitches occasionally toward the gun concealed beneath his jacket. "Spread out," he instructs his men. "Check every corner."

I remain motionless as the guards begin sweeping the perimeter, their flashlight beams cutting through darkness and dust. Waiting for the perfect moment requires patience, which is a quality I've honed through years of calculating risks and opportunities.

When the guards split to check opposite wings of the ruined building, I make my move. Stepping from shadow into moonlight, I position myself directly before the collapsed stage, where Fedor stands examining something on the ground.

"Looking for ghosts, cousin?"

Fedor whirls, weapon drawn before recognition registers in his widening eyes. The gun remains pointed at my chest, but his hand trembles visibly now. "Mak?"

"You seem surprised." I step closer, noting how he takes an instinctive step backward. "Surely you didn't believe I'd die so conveniently for your ambitions."

"You're dead." His voice catches between shock and accusation. "The DNA results?—"

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