Page 76 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Before we can process this miracle, Dr. Wilson is already delivering our second child. "Baby B, another boy."

Another cry joins the first, this one slightly higher in pitch but equally determined. The surgical team works with increased urgency now, knowing that once the first babies are delivered, the remaining three must follow quickly to prevent complications.

"Baby C—a girl."

"Baby D—another girl."

"And finally, Baby E—your third son."

Each announcement brings another distinct cry, five voices creating an impossible chorus that fills the operating room with new life. I drift in and out of awareness as the surgical team completes their work, closing the incision while the neonatal team assesses each infant.

The medication and exhaustion combine to create a dreamlike state, where only fragments remain clear—the pressure as each baby is lifted from my body, Mak's face above his surgical mask as he watches with wonder, and most vividly, the blessed sound of five small cries that somehow remain distinct even through the haze of medication.

"They're all doing remarkably well," Dr. Wilson assures us as the procedure concludes. "Most are around two pounds, with Baby A being three pounds, which is great for quintuplets at thirty-two weeks. They'll need some time in the NICU, but their initial assessments are excellent."

I struggle to stay conscious, desperate to see my children before they're taken to intensive care. The nurse must understand because suddenly, a tiny bundle wrapped in blue is brought close to my face—our firstborn son, his features scrunched in newborn indignation, dark hair plastered to his head. One by one, each baby is briefly introduced before being whisked away for more thorough assessment and care.

Mak watches the procession with stunned reverence, tears streaming unashamedly down his face. When the last baby is taken to the NICU, he turns back to me, pressing his forehead against mine in a gesture more intimate than any kiss.

"Thank you," he whispers, the simple words carrying the weight of everything unsaid between us. "They're perfect. All five of them."

I want to respond, to share this transcendent moment properly, but exhaustion finally claims me. As consciousness fades, I'm aware of Mak's hand still holding mine, his presence the last anchor to reality as I drift into healing sleep.

My last coherent thought before darkness claims me is wonder at how five tiny beings, not yet an hour old, have already reshaped our world more completely than all the violence and power Mak ever commanded. In their first breaths, they've accomplished what seemed impossible by transforming a former Bratva boss and a stubborn nurse into a family bound by love rather than fear or obligation.

29

Mak

The NICU is silent except for the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft hum of medical equipment. I stand before five glass-enclosed incubators arranged in a neat row, each containing a miracle I had no right to expect in this lifetime. My children. The word itself feels foreign in my mind, unfamiliar yet instantly precious.

They're impossibly small but perfect. Each tiny head sports a shock of dark hair that undeniably marks them as mine. Despite the tubes and monitoring equipment connecting their fragile bodies to machines tracking every breath and heartbeat, they're all alive, safe, and thriving.

Three identical boys and two identical girls, distinguished for now only by colored bands on their wrists and ankles—blue, green, and yellow for the boys, and pink and purple for the girls. The weight of my past disappears in an instant as I stand watching them, overwhelmed by the purity before me.

"You can touch them." A nurse approaches quietly, her movements suggesting years of guiding shell-shocked parents through this experience. "Just through the incubator openings here."

She demonstrates it gently, showing me how to slide my hands through the circular ports in the side of the first incubator. I hesitate, suddenly aware of the contrast between these innocent lives and the hands that have ended so many others. The nurse misinterprets my reluctance as fear of hurting them.

"Don't worry. You won't damage anything. Babies are more robust than they look." She smiles encouragingly. "This is Baby A, your firstborn. He's the largest at exactly three pounds."

Carefully, I slide my hand through the opening, my movements slow and deliberate as if disarming an explosive rather than touching my own child. My fingertip connects with his arm. His skin is softer than anything I've ever felt, and his tiny hand reflexively opens, then closes around my finger with surprising strength.

Something breaks open inside me at this simple contact. This child knows nothing of violence or betrayal, nothing of the blood that has stained these hands or the empire I've burned to ash for his sake. He simply exists, pure and untainted.

"They're doing remarkably well for quintuplets," the nurse continues, moving to the next incubator. "They’re small but mighty, as we like to say. At thirty-two weeks, their lung development is excellent due to optimal prenatal care and the steroid injections your wife had recently, though we'll keep them on supplemental oxygen for a few days as a precaution."

Not bothering to correct her assumption that Wil is my wife because I like the idea too much, I follow her from incubator to incubator, learning the subtle differences that distinguish my children despite their identical appearances.

Baby A has an assertive grip and strong cry. Baby B is calm and steady, his heartbeat the most regular of the five. Baby C, our first daughter, is the smallest at two pounds, one ounce, but fiercely active and constantly shifting position. Baby D, our second daughter, and second biggest at two pounds fourteen ounces, already has dark, watchful eyes. Baby E, our youngest son by eight minutes, has a birthmark like a small crescent moon behind his right ear.

"Would you like some time alone with them?" The nurse's question startles me from my observations. "I'll be just outside if you need anything."

When she leaves, I’m suddenly uncertain. What does one say to newborns who can’t understand yet will somehow absorb the emotion behind the words? I've commanded men with absolute authority and negotiated million-dollar deals without hesitation, but speaking to my own children renders me speechless.

Finally, I lean closer to the first incubator and begin speaking softly in Russian, the language of my childhood before violence and power colored every interaction.

"Ya tvoy otets," I whisper, telling them I’m their father. The simple truth feels monumental, a declaration more binding than any oath I've sworn. I continue in the language that once connected me to better things, offering ancient blessings my mother taught me long ago and promises they will know only love and safety, never the violence that shaped my own childhood.

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