Page 73 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Wil stands in the doorway of what must be the nursery, silhouetted against soft blue light that casts the room in gentle shadows. Her small frame has transformed completely, dominated now by the magnificent roundness that cradles our five children. One hand rests protectively over her belly while the other braces against the doorframe for support. Even in profile, I can see the changes pregnancy has wrought. Her face is fuller, and her posture has adjusted to accommodate her altered center of gravity. Her entire being radiates both strength and vulnerability.

She turns at the sound of my approach, and for a moment, we simply stare at each other across a distance that suddenly feels both too vast and too intimate. Her face is radiant despite the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks, her expression cycling through multiple emotions as she absorbs my presence—shock, relief, anger, uncertainty, and something deeper I dare not name for fear of presumption.

Neither of us speaks at first. Words seem inadequate for all that has transpired.

Then Wil walks toward me with deliberate steps, her movements careful but determined despite her unwieldy shape. Her hand remains protectively on her belly as she approaches, cradling our children between us like the precious miracle they are. When she reaches me, she studies my face with unflinching scrutiny, as if searching for evidence I’m truly the man she remembers and not some impostor wearing his features.

Without warning, she hits my chest once with a closed fist. It’s not hard enough to hurt but it has enough force to communicate months of grief and anger. I accept the blow without flinching, understanding it as the minimum penance for what I've put her through. Then her expression crumbles, composure dissolving as she collapses forward into my arms.

I catch her weight easily, wrapping her in an embrace that must accommodate the roundness of her belly between us. Her familiar scent surrounds me that I've carried in memory through months of separation. I bury my face in her hair, inhaling deeply as tears I've denied myself for too long finally fall freely.

"I might be late," I whisper against her temple, the words woefully inadequate for all we've endured, "But I'm finally home."

She shakes with silent sobs against mine, fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt as if to verify my solidity. "You were dead," she manages between shuddering breaths. "I thought you were dead."

"I know." The words catch in my throat, thick with regret for pain I caused, believing it necessary. "I'm sorry."

"You let me grieve you." She pulls back slightly, eyes flashing with renewed anger through her tears. "For months, I cried myself to sleep thinking you were gone forever."

"It was the only way to keep you safe while I finished what needed to be done." The explanation sounds hollow even to my ears, a justification rather than a true apology. "I couldn't risk Fedor discovering you knew I was alive. He would have?—"

"I don't care about Fedor." Her voice rises with emotion as she presses her hands against my chest to create separation between us. "I care about being lied to. I care about being treated like I couldn't handle the truth or make my own decisions. I care aboutyoudeciding what was best formewithout giving me any choice in the matter."

Each accusation lands with surgical precision, exposing the arrogance underlying my protection. I wanted to shield her from danger but in doing so, I denied her agency. In trying to protect her, I repeated the patterns of control that defined the world I was supposedly leaving behind.

I still believe it was safer if she didn’t know I was alive, but I should have discussed it with her, even knowing the risk. I realize now that if Fedor had found her or Zina, he would’ve tortured them regardless. Instead, I inflicted a different kind of pain—slow, consuming, and deliberate—on the two women I love most. "You're right." I offer no excuses. "I was wrong."

My simple acknowledgment seems to catch her by surprise. She blinks, perhaps expecting the defensive response of a man unaccustomed to admitting error. Instead, I give her the unvarnished truth. "I've spent my entire life believing protection means control." I reach cautiously to brush tears from her cheek. "I thought keeping people safe required making decisions for them. I was wrong, and I'm sorry for the pain it caused you."

Her expression softens fractionally, though wariness remains in the set of her shoulders. "That doesn't fix it, Mak. You can't just apologize and expect everything to be okay."

"I know." I withdraw my hand, respecting the boundary she establishes. "I don't expect instant forgiveness—only the chance to earn it eventually, and to show you through actions rather than words that I'm trying to change."

Something shifts in her gaze, anger giving way to cautious assessment. Before she can respond, a sharp intake of breath interrupts her thoughts, and she cradles her side.

"What is it?" Alarm courses through me as I reach toward her without thinking.

"Nothing." She waves away my concern, grimacing slightly. "Just enthusiastic acrobatics from your offspring. They're particularly active tonight."

My offspring. The simple phrase sends a wave of emotion through me so powerful I nearly stagger beneath its force. Despite knowing intellectually that Wil carries our five children, the reality strikes me anew. My children are my legacy in the truest sense of the word. Not an empire built on blood and fear, but new lives created in a moment of connection with the extraordinary woman before me.

"May I?" I gesture tentatively toward her belly, uncertain of my welcome.

She hesitates momentarily before nodding, guiding my hand to the left side of her abdomen. For several seconds, nothing happens. Then I feel a distinct pressure against my palm, like a deliberate push from within that can only be a tiny hand or foot testing the boundaries of its world.

"That's Baby A," Wil says, the clinical designation softened by unmistakable affection in her voice. "The most active of the bunch. Always the first to respond to noise or touch."

Another movement ripples across her belly, visible even beneath the loose fabric of her nightgown. I watch in wonder as the perfect dome of her abdomen shifts and distorts with autonomous movement from within.

"I've been telling them about you—who you really are, not just what you've done."

The knowledge nearly overwhelms me. While I've been dismantling my empire, destroying the legacy of violence that defined me for decades, Wil has been constructing a different narrative for our children that acknowledges my darkness but doesn't reduce me to it. She's given them the father they deserve rather than the monster the world knew.

"Thank you." The words seem wholly insufficient for the gift she's offered. "For not letting them think I was just?—"

"A murderer? A criminal?" She completes my thought with characteristic directness. "They need to know all of you, Mak. The man who kills without hesitation and the man who built me a greenhouse because he saw how much I needed growing things around me. TheBratvaboss and the brother who protected Zina from your father's cruelty. They need the whole truth to make their own decisions about who you are to them."

Her wisdom humbles me. While I've been operating in absolutes—complete destruction of my former self and total reconstruction of a new identity—she’s been navigating the complex middle ground, where most of life actually occurs. She offers not absolution but understanding.

---