Page 44 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Only then does Wil notice me in the doorway. Her expression changes subtly. It’s not quite welcoming, but at least it no longer carries the wariness that characterized our early interactions. "Would you like to see them?"

The invitation surprises me. I step into the room, approaching the examination table with unusual hesitation. The monitor displays what looks like a complex abstract painting to me, but as Dr. Phillips points out their tiny hands, the curve of spines, and the chambers of miniature hearts, the reality materializes with stunning clarity.

"They're healthy?"

"Remarkably so, given the circumstances." She begins printing images from the ultrasound. "Ms. Lamb is doing an excellent job growing five humans simultaneously."

Wil looks exhausted but determined, her hand still protectively placed near her slightly rounded abdomen. The sight stirs something primitive and protective inside me. These are my children. My family. My legacy. Their safety suddenly feels more important than territories or shipping routes or power structures I've spent my life building.

"Thank you, Doctor." I step back, allowing her to complete the examination. "Is there anything specific she needs? Anything I should provide?"

Dr. Phillips gives me a pointed look, clearly aware of who I am despite our careful vetting. "Rest, nutrition, and minimal stress. Multiple pregnancies take an enormous physical toll. The more support she has, the better the outcome for everyone."

After the doctor finishes her examination and packs her equipment, Leonid escorts her from the estate. Zina helps Wil sit up, adjusting pillows behind her back with sisterly familiarity.

"I'll get you some tea." She squeezes Wil's shoulder gently before leaving us alone.

An awkward silence falls between us. Despite sharing meals and occasionally exchanging brief pleasantries, this is the first time we've been truly alone since she arrived at the estate.

"The greenhouse looks good."

"It does." She smooths the examination gown over her knees. "Your sister has quite the green thumb."

"She gets it from our mother. Before she died, there were gardens everywhere. Zina was too young to remember, but she inherited the talent, I’m sure."

Wil studies me with new interest. "You never talk about your mother."

"No." I move to the window, looking out at the grounds where my security teams patrol in careful rotations. "It was long ago."

"Not to you, it seems."

The quiet observation catches me unprepared. She sees more than I've given her credit for. In the reflection of the window glass, I watch her slide carefully from the examination table, wrapping a robe around herself.

"Zina mentioned your father's response to her death shaped you both. That he became harder afterward."

"Zina talks too much." The words lack real anger. My sister has always believed in honesty, even when inconvenient.

"Or maybe you don't talk enough."

I turn to face her, struck by how small she seems in the oversized medical robe, yet how strong is her direct gaze. "What would you like me to say? That my father became a monster after my mother's murder? That he trained me to be an even more effective monster to ensure it never happened again? That violence became our love language because any other form of caring was deemed weakness?"

The words emerge harsher than intended, years of carefully controlled emotion bleeding through. I expect her to retreat, to recoil from this glimpse of darkness. Instead, she steps closer.

"Yes. That's exactly what I'd like you to say. The truth, without calculation or strategy."

The request is so simple, yet so foreign to my existence. Truth without purpose, without agenda. Just raw honesty for its own sake. "I don't know how to do that anymore, if I ever did."

She perches carefully on the edge of a chair, suddenly looking tired. "Try. Start with something small."

I consider this unusual challenge. What truth could I offer that wouldn't frighten her further? What honest thing exists in me that isn't tainted by the life I've led? "I watch you and Zina from my study window. When you walk in the gardens. When you work in the greenhouse together. It...pleases me to see you becoming friends."

Wil tilts her head slightly, processing this admission. "Why?"

"Because you're both important to me in different ways, and because Zina has few genuine connections. People either fear her because of me or want to use her to get to me. She needs someone who sees her for herself."

"And what about you? What do you need?"

The question blindsides me. No one asks what I need. I take what I require and command what I desire. Needs are vulnerabilities I've spent a lifetime disguising.

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