Page 71 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

“Also, be sure our guys serving time at that prison are Jay’s new shadows, not just the man you’ve had transferred in to share his cell. I’m paying enough for the guards and warden to turn a blind eye to him having a security detail.”

“Sure thing,” says Dmitri, reaching for his phone.

As I slide into the back of my waiting car, the leather seat cool against my back, Dmitri gets in the passenger seat. “Something’s not adding up,” I say, running my thumb over my bottom lip. “Petrov wouldn’t risk a prison hit unless he was desperate. This goes beyond simple retaliation.”

Dmitri turns in his seat. “You think there’s more to it than targeting you?”

“He’s fighting on multiple fronts, but Yuri hasn’t yet cracked whatever he’s trying to hide.” I tap my fingers against the armrest. “With this Mikhailov threat, and him waging war on us, Matvey’s spread thin and maybe distracted.”

A predatory smile curves my lips. “And that makes this the perfect moment to strike.” I lean forward, meeting Dmitri’s gaze in the visor mirror. “Get our people ready. By the time I’m finished, there won’t be enough left of Petrov’s empire to fill a matchbox.”

26

Claire

Istare at the pages of my paperback romance novel, watching the printed letters swim and merge into meaningless shapes. My fingertip traces the edge of a dog-eared page while my stomach performs another nervous flip. The buttery Italian leather of Valerian’s designer couch protests with a gentle squeak as I tuck my legs underneath me, then straighten them, then curl them back again.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, letting the book fall closed in my lap. The gold-embossed title catches the warm light from the nearby floor lamp, but I barely notice it. My mind keeps replaying the doctor’s appointment in vivid detail, especially seeing those four distinct heartbeats pulsing through the ultrasound speaker.

I stare at my still-flat stomach in the warm glow of the lamp, unable to process the magnitude of what’s growing inside me. The word keeps echoing in my mind, each syllable more jarring than the last.

“Quadruplets,” I whisper, testing how it feels on my tongue. It sounds like dialogue from one of those late-night hospital shows—the kind where perfectly coiffed doctors deliver miraculous news while dramatic music swells in the background, but this isn’t television. This is my life.

I press my palm against my abdomen, the cotton of my blouse soft beneath my fingers. There’s no bump yet, no visible sign of the chaos brewing within. Four babies. Four distinct heartbeats, each one a tiny drummer marking time in their own rhythm.

“How are you all even in there?” I murmur to my stomach, letting out a shaky laugh. “You’re going to need a better real estate agent because this space is definitely not built for four.”

The reality crashes over me in waves—four cribs, four car seats, and four college funds. At least Valerian won’t have any problem covering that. I clutch the leather cushion beneath me as vertigo sweeps through my body.

I stare at the ornate ceiling medallion above me, watching it blur and dance as my thoughts swirl like a whirlpool. The crystal chandelier catches afternoon light, scattering rainbow prisms across the walls of Valerian’s study.

“Valerian’s going to need a bigger house.” The words escape in a breathless whisper before I can catch them. A bubble of laughter follows, high-pitched and teetering on the edge of hysteria. My fingers trace abstract patterns on the leather armrest as I picture the sprawling mansion with its twenty-seven rooms and endless hallways.

“What am I thinking? This place could house a small army.” I press my palm flat against my still-flat stomach. “Though I suppose that’s what you’ll be, won’t you? A tiny army of babies.”The thought of four babies toddling down these marble halls brings another wave of nervous giggles. “At least you’ll have each other. Built-in best friends, right there in the nursery.” My voice cracks on the last word, dissolving into a trembling whisper. The mental image floods my mind, four identical cribs arranged with military precision, their white bars gleaming under nursery lights. My throat tightens as the enormity of it hits me.

“Oh, god.” The words scrape past my lips as a wave of dizziness crashes over me. The marble floor seems to tilt beneath my feet, and bile rises hot and bitter in my throat. I stumble up from the leather chair, one hand pressed to my mouth, the other groping blindly along the wall. The bathroom door bangs against the wall as I burst through it, barely making it to the toilet before my body revolts. The acid burn of tea and half-digested sandwich sears my throat, tears pricking my eyes as I grip the cold porcelain. The sound of my retching echoes off the pristine tiles, punctuated by my ragged breaths.

“This is real.” I say between heaves. “This is actually happening.” The cool floor seeps through my knees as I slump there, tasting ginger and misery. The remnants of my pathetic lunch swirl away with a flush, leaving me trembling and hollow.

I drag myself to the sink, turning the tap until cold water gushes out. The splash against my clammy skin makes me gasp, but it helps clear my head. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—pale face, bloodshot eyes, and water droplets trailing down my cheeks. I pat my face dry with a fluffy hand towel, the soft cotton gentle against my tender skin.

Back in the living room, my legs give out, and I sink into the plush cushions of the sofa and stretch out lengthwise. I rest my hands on my abdomen, fingers spreading across the smooth plane of my stomach. I gasp slightly to feel a small protrusionand hardness. I’m not showing yet, but there are already changes. “Did the doctor tell me how far along I am?” I whisper to the empty room, trying to calculate. “I don’t remember, but it was so chaotic. I can’t be more than ten weeks or so.”

The thought sends fresh anxiety coursing through me when I really consider the idea that in six months or so, due to multiples’ gestation period being shorter for safety, I’ll have four babies entrusted to me. I’ll have to keep them alive and figure out all the little and big details, from diaper changes to how to breastfeed as much as possible to minimize formula usage.

Thinking about all the myriad details, I picture the way Valerian’s jaw tightens when he’s processing difficult news.

“God, what will you do?” My voice breaks on the question. “Will you smile? Or will this be the thing that makes you run?” I trace idle patterns on my stomach, imagining his possible reactions.

He could be overjoyed and sweep me up in those strong arms of his. Or his face could shut down, a cold mask sliding into place as he calculates the risks of a pregnant girlfriend in his world of violence and vendettas.

“Please don’t push me away,” I whisper, curling onto my side. “Please want this too.”

I close my eyelids, knowing I need to tell him. The longer I wait, the harder it will be, but how do I even begin that conversation? “Hey, Valerian, remember when we thought I couldn’t get pregnant? Surprise! It’s not just one baby, it’s four!”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle it. The last thing I need is for Valerian’s men stationed outside to think I’m losing my mind. Although maybe I am.

I force myself to take deep breaths, trying to calm the anxiety churning in my stomach. One step at a time, I tell myself. First, I need to figure out how to break the news to Valerian. Then we can deal with everything else.

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