Page 75 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

The calm, professional nurse in me takes mental inventory—contractions approximately seven minutes apart, lasting fifty to sixty seconds, and increasing in intensity. My water hasn't broken yet, but the pattern is unmistakable. Active labor has begun, weeks earlier than a singleton pregnancy, but not catastrophically premature, especially for quintuplets.

Leonid's pragmatic voice cuts through the moment of stunned silence. "We need to go. The center is forty minutes away in good traffic."

"I'll call Dr. Wilson." Zina already has her phone in hand, stepping away to make the necessary arrangements.

The next contraction hits with stunning force, driving a gasp from my lips despite my determination to remain composed. Mak moves with gentleness, supporting me as my knees threaten to buckle.

"Breathe through it." He mimics the deep breathing pattern I've unconsciously adopted. "That's it. You're not alone."

The tenderness in his voice nearly undoes me more thoroughly than the pain. After months of grief and anger, after the shock of his return, this moment of crisis strips away pretense between us. His fear is naked in his eyes, but so is his determination to remain steady for me.

Everything accelerates after that. Zina returns with confirmation that the center is preparing for our arrival. Leonid brings the hospital bag I packed weeks ago from its place by the door. Mak helps me into a coat despite the warmth of the May night, his overprotectiveness manifesting in practical concerns about temperature regulation and shock.

The drive is simultaneously endless and too brief, passing in a blur of pain and fear punctuated by moments of crystal clarity. Mak drives with the steady precision that once commanded a criminal empire, though his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel each time I gasp with a new contraction. Zina sits beside me in the back seat, timing contractions on her phone while offering counter-pressure against my lower back when pain peaks.

"Five minutes apart now." The tremor in her voice betrays anxiety she's trying to conceal. "Lasting about seventy seconds."

"The transition's happening faster than normal." I force the words between controlled breaths, medical knowledge both a blessing and a curse in this moment. "Multiple births often progress quickly once they start."

We arrive at the private clinic Mak arranged months ago when letting me go to the safehouse. It’s a discreet facility specializing in high-risk deliveries and staffed by specialists, who've been monitoring my pregnancy since our arrival at the safehouse. Despite the middle-of-night timing, the medical team mobilizes quickly.

Dr. Wilson meets us at the entrance, his usual calm demeanor a stabilizing force amid mounting tension. "Thirty-one weeks, four days is excellent for quintuplets. Their lung development looked good on last week's scans, and you’ve had the steroid shots to develop their lungs, since your scheduled C-section is next week."

I nod through his explanation, understanding intellectually that nearly thirty-two weeks gives us excellent odds for healthy outcomes while still harboring the instinctive maternal fear of complications. The rational nurse and terrified mother wage war within me as another contraction crests, stronger than any before.

"We've already prepped the operating room." Dr. Wilson directs his comments to Mak without formal introduction, moving efficiently alongside the wheelchair a nurse has brought for me. "We'll need to move quickly, but we're well-prepared for this scenario."

Mak's expression reveals both relief and renewed anxiety—comfort that medical professionals stand ready, and terror at the reality of what's happening. His holds my hand as I'm wheeled toward the operating suite, his grip firm despite the slight tremor I feel in his fingers.

"Stay with me," I manage to say between breaths as another contraction begins building.

"I'm not going anywhere." The promise carries weight beyond this immediate crisis, like an answer to the separation that preceded it, and a commitment to what follows.

The next half-hour passes in controlled chaos. Nurses efficiently prep me for surgery, attaching monitors that display five distinct heartbeats, each slightly out of sync with the others. An IV line delivers fluids to combat the slight dehydration caused by hours of early labor. The anesthesiologist explains the spinal block procedure, though I could recite the process from my nursing days.

Mak stays beside me through it all, following instructions to don surgical scrubs and mask without question or complaint. In the harsh fluorescent light of the pre-op area, I notice details missed in the emotional tumult of his return—new lines etched around his eyes, silver threading his temples that wasn't there before, and a weariness beneath his vigilance that speaks to months of solitary purpose.

"You're not alone," he promises as the anesthesiologist administers the spinal block that will numb my lower body. The medication works quickly, warmth spreading through my legs followed by blessed relief from pain and increasing numbness. "I'm right here, and I'm not leaving again."

A blue surgical drape is raised across my chest, creating a barrier between my upper body and the surgical field below. The anesthesiologist adjusts my position, ensuring my comfort while maintaining proper exposure for the surgical team. Mak settles on a stool beside my head, his eyes above his surgical mask revealing both terror and wonder.

"Talk to me," I request as the numbness spreads higher, bringing with it the strange floating sensation of regional anesthesia. "About anything. Just keep me here."

Mak leans closer, his voice low and intimate amid the professional commotion surrounding us. "When I was ten, Zina got chicken pox. She was miserable, covered in spots and fever. My father was away on business." His hand strokes my hair away from my face, the gentle touch anchoring me as doctors prepare for the first incision. "I read to her for three days straight. Fairy tales mostly, the kind with happy endings our family never seemed to have. My voice gave out completely, but she finally slept."

The unexpected story draws me away from my anxiety, offering a glimpse of the brother behind the hardened exterior. "You've always protected her."

"It's the only thing I've consistently done right." His smile is visible only in the crinkles around his eyes above his mask. "Until now, I hope."

The surgery proceeds cleanly, the team working efficiently to bring five new lives safely into the world. I feel pressure and movement but no pain, the sensations distant and dreamlike through medication and exhaustion. Mak continues to talk, and his voice becomes my focal point while the room blurs around us.

"First baby coming," Dr. Wilson says, his professional tone unable to completely mask excitement. "Baby A. It's a boy."

The pressure increases briefly, followed by a strange sense of release. Seconds stretch into eternity before a thin, indignant cry pierces the operating room, our first child announcing his arrival with surprising strength for his size. Tears spring to my eyes at the sound, the primal maternal instinct overwhelming even through medication.

"Is he okay?" Mak's voice cracks with emotion, his composure finally breaking.

"Three pounds even," calls a nurse from the assessment station, where they've taken our son. "Excellent size for a quintuplet, and strong lungs."

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