Page 60 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

"We need to accelerate the contingency plan," I Say, channeling rage into calculating precision rather than blind vengeance. "All phases. Simultaneously."

His eyebrows rise slightly, the only indication of surprise. "The risk factor increases exponentially."

"So does the reward." I move to the secure safe behind a false panel, extracting documents prepared years ago but never implemented. "The Eclipse's grand reopening this weekend is our opening."

* * *

The plan takesshape with meticulous attention to detail. Over the next forty-eight hours, I meet with only my most trusted lieutenants, men who have proven their loyalty through decades of service, not through family ties or political ambition.

Leonid spreads blueprints of the Eclipse nightclub across my desk, tracing maintenance corridors and exit routes marked in red while four of my most trusted men—Yakov, Orlov, Lev, and Sasha—lean in, memorizing each detail. These are men who have proven their loyalty through years of service rather than through family ties or political ambition, and I trust them with not only my life but also the future I hope to build with Wil and our children.

"The tunnel access is here." Leonid taps a spot beneath the private VIP lounge. "It’s original construction from Prohibition that was sealed off during previous remodeling but reopened by our crew disguised as building inspectors during our round of renovations. It seemed like a handy escape in the event one was ever needed."

“Good thinking ahead, my friend,” I say.

Orlov studies the exit points with narrowed eyes. "Where does it lead?"

"Three blocks east through the maintenance shed for the old subway line." Leonid slides photographs across the table.

The plan continues taking shape as I deliberately feed Fedor false information about a high-level meeting with Colombian distributors at the Eclipse, inviting him to join the discussion in my office, where I can watch him absorb the news with predatory satisfaction.

"The Colombians are nervous after the Kazanov incursion into their territory." I slide a folder across my desk. "This meeting finalizes our protection agreement."

A barely perceptible twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes gleam with restrained anticipation as he processes the opportunity I've unwittingly presented to him—or so he believes.

"Smart move, cousin. This solidifies our southern corridor."

"I want you to handle security personally." I note how he straightens slightly at being handed the very control he needs to execute whatever plan he's formulated. "There’s no one else I trust for something this sensitive."

Fedor nods, not even attempting to hide his pleasure at being handed the security arrangements. "I'll oversee everything myself."

That evening, I sit across from him in my office with the chess set between us, but we’re not playing yet.

Fedor gestures to the crystal decanter with exaggerated hospitality. "Drink?"

"Please."

He pours two glasses of amber liquid, handing one to me with a gesture of fraternal camaraderie, but when he turns to replace the stopper, I catch the slight unsteadiness in his hand, the only betrayal of his anticipation that he can’t fully control despite years of practice at deception.

I raise the glass to my lips without letting the liquid touch them while his gaze tracks the movement with an intensity that would be imperceptible to anyone who hadn't spent a lifetime reading the micro-expressions of dangerous men, and when he glances at his phone, I empty the glass into the soil of the large fern beside my chair, reasonably certain what the drink contains.

Fedor raises his own glass in a toast, his voice carrying layers of meaning only he believes he understands. "Tomorrow will change everything."

"Yes." I meet his gaze directly, letting a touch of genuine emotion show through my carefully maintained mask. "It certainly will."

A flicker of uncertainty crosses his features before smooth confidence returns, and he clearly believes his plans remain undetected while he has no idea that my men have already swept the club for his devices and planted our own explosives throughout the structure—precisely positioned for maximum structural impact but carefully rigged to avoid the main floor. I made sure of it. Staff loyal to me will do a floor sweep under the guise of a plumbing issue in the lower level when the time is right.

After he leaves, I make final preparations, transferring significant assets to secure accounts established years ago under identities not even my lawyers know exist. Paperwork for Wil and our children rests in offshore vaults secured by biometric locks that only I can access, and the foundations for our new life are established as invisible rails laid for a journey that now depends on perfect execution.

In the pre-dawn hours, I record a message for Wil on an encrypted device, allowing the camera to capture a version of me few have ever seen—just a man speaking truths long buried under years of violence and control.

"I was eleven when I first saw someone die." My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, stripped of the authority I normally project. "Sixteen when I first killed. Neither leaves you, but for different reasons."

I speak of the boy I was before violence claimed me, dreams long abandoned, and regrets that haunt my quietest moments, telling her how she awakened parts of me I believed dead and how our children represent a future I never dared imagine. "This is the only gift worthy of what you've given me..." I finish the recording, my throat unexpectedly tight. "Freedom from the Vorobev legacy."

* * *

The Eclipse pulseswith blue and purple lights that dance across the restored cathedral's Gothic arches, casting eerie shadows through stained glass that once depicted saints but now fractures the light into kaleidoscopic patterns over the dance floor. I arrive precisely at 9:30, flanked by security as usual, though tonight my normal team has been replaced by the four men who know the truth, and we are met at the entrance by Fedor, who clasps my shoulder with performative warmth that doesn't reach his calculating eyes.

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