Page 72 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

"Should I be happy or furious?" I ask her as she draws the curtains against the setting sun. "I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore."

"Be both," she suggests with the pragmatism that's sustained us through these difficult months. "He's alive, which is worth joy. He deceived us, and that deserves anger. You can hold both truths at once."

She leaves me to rest, understanding my need for solitude to process this revelation, but sleep remains elusive as my mind races through consequences and possibilities. If Mak is alive, what exactly has he been doing these past months? What danger necessitated such an elaborate deception? And most importantly, what happens when he returns?

As night falls, I’m drawn once more to the ocean-facing window. Despite Dr. Wilson's instructions for bed rest, I ease myself carefully into the window seat, needing the comfort of the familiar view. Waves crash against the shore in hypnotic rhythm, unchanged by the human drama unfolding nearby. I rest my hand on my belly, feeling the familiar patterns of movement from the lives who connect me irrevocably to Mak, whether he's dead or alive.

For the first time in months, I speak to our children about their father in present tense. "Your father is alive," I tell them softly, still adjusting to this new reality. "He's the most confounding, complicated, infuriating man I've ever known."

A particularly strong kick presses against my palm, as if in agreement with my assessment. I smile despite myself.

"He thinks he needs to protect everyone by himself. He makes unilateral decisions and expects everyone to fall in line." Another kick, this one gentler. "But he loves fiercely, and he's fighting for us in the only way he knows how."

The admission brings unexpected clarity. Mak's methods are questionable, but his motivation seems genuine, to create safety for his family by whatever means necessary. The deception hurts deeply, but I understand its roots in the violent world that shaped him. "And somehow, despite everything," I whisper to my unborn children, "I still love him."

The words settle over me with surprising lightness. Whatever happens next, whatever game Mak is playing with his apparent death and cryptic messages, these children will know the real man behind the myth—both his darkness and his capacity for love.

Whether he returns tomorrow or months from now, whether I forgive him instantly or make him work for redemption, he remains the father of my children, and the complicated man who claimed my heart despite every rational objection. It’s not blind forgiveness. It’s a choice, and a hard one at that. I choose to have him in my life when he returns, though I might kill him for real after I get done embracing him.

27

Mak

Dawn breaks over the ruins of my former life as I stand for the last time in the abandoned factory that served as headquarters for my ghost operation. The concrete floors are swept clean, the computer equipment has been dismantled and sensitive components were destroyed. Every trace of our presence has been methodically erased. Nothing remains to connect this space to the man once known as Makari Vorobev,pakhanof the RussianBratvaof my territory in New York City.

"The final arrangements are complete," says Orlov, handing me a manila envelope containing new identification documents. Leonid has gone ahead to the safehouse, and Sasha departed hours ago for his flight to Indonesia, his new identity ready to be lived in. "The estate has been transferred to the shell corporation as instructed. All accounts are either closed or redirected."

I nod, examining the passport bearing my face but a different name—one unremarkable and unmemorable, which is perfect for disappearing into ordinary life. The photograph shows a stranger with shorter hair and no beard and eyes less haunted than I remember seeing in mirrors. "And Fedor?"

"The body was discovered yesterday morning. Police are treating it as gang-related violence." Yakov shares that, and his expression remains neutral, but satisfaction colors his tone.

"Time to go," I say to them, surveying the empty space one last time. "It’s all been burned to ash."

Yakov nods, understanding my metaphorical directive. All digital records are destroyed, all connections are severed, and all trails are obscured beyond recovery. The man I was ceases to exist from this moment forward. The life I built through blood and calculation is abandoned as completely as this industrial shell.

In the parking lot, we take separate vehicles. Yakov doesn’t share his destination, but Orlov has talked about New Orleans many times with longing, so I wouldn’t be surprised if his new life starts there. I won’t know though. We won’t stay in touch. It’s the safest way for all of us to stay dead and be reborn, so the less we know about each other’s plans, the better.

My transformation continues methodically in a nondescript motel thirty miles from the coast. I shave my beard with careful strokes, watching dark stubble disappear down the drain along with the last vestiges of Makari Vorobev. The face that emerges appears younger and more vulnerable, and somehow almost unfamiliar after months of hiding behind facial hair. I cut my hair shorter than I've worn it since childhood, the style decidedly average—neither fashionable nor dated, and designed to draw no attention whatsoever.

Designer suits and Italian leather shoes have been replaced by plain clothes purchased from department stores—jeans, cotton shirts, and a weathered jacket that suggests honest work rather than criminal enterprise. I study the stranger in the mirror, this ordinary man who could be anyone from anywhere, and wonder if Wil will see through the new face to the man I’ve finally become.

From my discarded jacket, I retrieve the only item I keep from my former life—a small velvet box containing a ring commissioned months ago but never offered. The solitaire ruby catches light from the bathroom's fluorescent fixtures. Five small diamonds surround it in a delicate setting, representing our children. I won’t be able to give it to her for a while, not until I’ve earned forgiveness, but I couldn’t bear to leave this behind. Someday, I hope it will be on her finger all the time.

Rain falls as I drive toward the coast, the rhythmic sweep of windshield wipers marking time like a metronome. The roads grow narrower and less maintained as I approach my destination, civilization giving way to wild coastline and scattered homes built to withstand Atlantic storms. I've never visited the safehouse personally, knowing its location only through coordinates and surveillance photos, yet it feels more like home than any property I've owned.

I abandon the car a mile from my destination, continuing on foot through dense coastal forest rather than approaching via the monitored main road. Night has fallen completely, cloud cover obscuring moonlight and stars, which creates perfect conditions for moving undetected. The path is treacherous in darkness, with roots that threaten to trip me, and branches whipping against my face, but I navigate by instinct and memory of topographical maps studied in preparation.

The house appears through the trees, perched on a low cliff overlooking the ocean. Lights glow behind drawn curtains. I approach from the beach access, keeping myself in the darkness. This early into my new life, old habits are impossible to break even when unnecessary. The security system acknowledges my biometrics despite my altered appearance, disabling the sensors and alarm automatically when I reach the door and press my palm to the panel.

I don't knock, but footsteps approach immediately from inside. I recognize Leonid's distinctive tread, long and alert. The door opens to reveal my most trusted lieutenant, his expression revealing nothing as he takes in my new appearance. For a moment, we regard each other silently. Then he steps aside with a nod that acknowledges everything words would only diminish.

"They received your message," he says simply, the only confirmation I need that Wil knows I'm alive.

Before I can respond, movement in the dim hallway catches my attention. Zina appears like an apparition, frozen momentarily as if seeing a ghost. Recognition dawns in her eyes, followed by a complex wave of emotions before she throws herself forward, arms encircling me with bruising force. Her quiet sob breaks the tense silence, the first sound beyond the omnipresent crash of distant waves.

"You're really here," she whispers against my shoulder, her voice muffled and thick with emotion. "You're alive."

I hold her tightly, allowing myself to acknowledge how deeply I've missed my sister. When she steps back, she scans my face with careful scrutiny. Without words, she takes my hand and leads me through the darkened house, past a living room containing evidence of comfortable domesticity. The hallway deepens, spilling light from a partially open door at its end. She squeezes my hand once before releasing it, stepping aside to let me continue alone.

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