Page 68 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

I settle into her embrace, feeling some of the tension leave my body. “Thank you, Mom. I just need some time to figure out how to tell Valerian.”

“Don’t wait too long. Secrets have a way of coming out, and the longer you wait, the harder it will be.” She slants me a small smile. “Especially with a multiple baby pregnancy. You could conceivably pop overnight and suddenly be showing.”

I nod, knowing she’s right, and I want to tell Valerian before it’s physically obvious. We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea before she asks more about the babies, and I share the details of my doctor’s appointment, and the shock of seeing four tiny heartbeats on the ultrasound screen.

“Two singletons and a pair of identical twins,” I say with both awe and fear in my voice. “Can you believe it?”

Mom laughs softly. “Oh, sweetheart. You never do anything by halves, do you?”

I chuckle at that. “Apparently not.”

As we talk, some of the weight lifts from my shoulders. Mom listens without judgment, offering advice when I ask for it and just being a comforting presence when I need it.

Before I know it, lunchtime rolls around. We move to the kitchen, where the chef has prepared a simple meal of sandwiches and fruit. As we eat, Mom shares stories from the flower shop, making me laugh with tales of demanding brides and clueless boyfriends trying to choose the perfect bouquet. It’sonly been a few days, but I miss being in the thick of it all. I miss my massage clients too.

All too soon, one of Valerian’s guards appears in the doorway, informing us Mom’s SUV is ready. I walk her to the front door, hugging her tightly.

“You can handle this,” she whispers before pulling back.

I nod, blinking back tears. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” With a wave, she walks out between two hulking bodyguards like she does that every day. With the way things have been lately, she probably does.

I stand watch until she’s in the SUV, and it pulls away. Once I’m alone, I keenly notice Valerian’s absence for the first time since Mom arrived. I turn to Dmitri, who’s standing nearby.

“Where’s Valerian by the way?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual. “He said something about errands.”

Dmitri’s expression remains impassive. “He had a meeting but should be back soon.”

I nod, pushing down the flicker of worry that tries to rise. Valerian’s a busy man, and meetings are part of his life. Still, as I head back inside, I worry about him. I can’t help it.

Settling back onto the couch, I pick up the magazine I’d abandoned earlier, trying to distract myself from thoughts of Valerian’s absence and the secret growing inside me. The words blur on the page, and my mind wanders to the conversation I need to have with him, and soon.

25

Valerian

After hanging up with Linda to arrange for her to keep Claire company, I slide my phone into my pocket and nod at Viktor. He doesn’t need a full explanation since he knows where we’re going.

The sleek black sedan glides through Philadelphia’s dimly lit streets, the night stretching out ahead like an open hand. The city moves in the periphery, late-night cabs picking up fares, figures slumped under streetlights, sirens wailing in the distance. None of it distracts me. My mind is already where I’m headed.

Jay was attacked.

Why?

On the surface, it could be the usual—debts unpaid, picking a fight he couldn’t win, or just being at the wrong place at the wrong time. My instincts say otherwise. The Petrovs don’twaste their time beating up nobodies unless there’s a message attached.

And that’s what I need to figure out.

Viktor pulls up at the hospital entrance, and I step out, straightening the cuffs of my suit jacket as I take in the building. The automatic doors slide open with a whisper, and the scent of antiseptic washes over me. Hospitals all feel the same—too clean on the surface, but underneath, they reek of weakness, pain, and waiting.

I make my way down the hall, scanning the door numbers until I find the one I’m looking for. Jay has been moved to a regular room, out of ICU, finally.

A corrections officer stands outside Jay’s door, arms crossed, and posture stiff. He’s young, maybe early thirties, and his uniform is slightly wrinkled. His duty belt sags from the weight of a baton and sidearm. He sizes me up as I approach. His hand drifts slightly toward his weapon, not overtly aggressive, but a reflex.

I reach into my pocket and slip out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, holding it between two fingers.

“Why don’t you grab a coffee?”

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