Page 79 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

"The orchids look happy," he says, glancing toward the greenhouse that serves as my personal retreat. “Your mother’s rosebush is getting huge.”

"They're all thriving." I rest my hand against his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath my palm. "Like everything else around here."

His expression softens as he looks past me toward our children, now engaged in an elaborate game involving pinecones and imaginary castle defenses under Zina's watchful eye. "I never thought I'd have this," he says quietly, the vulnerability in his voice still rare enough to feel significant. "Sometimes, I wake up certain it's a dream."

"Not a dream." I rise on tiptoes to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, rough with weekend stubble. "Just a very different reality than either of us expected."

In the distance, a car approaches along our private drive, the sound of tires on gravel barely audible above the children's laughter. Mak's body tenses slightly—old instincts are never completely forgotten—but relaxes almost immediately as he recognizes the vehicle.

"Ah, Dr. Wilson's early." He checks his watch with an amused expression. "Still keeping doctor's hours even in retirement."

The familiar sedan parks near the house, and our former obstetrician emerges with the slightly stooped posture of advancing age. Though officially retired, he makes monthly visits to check on the quintuplets' development, his professional interest in their remarkable case evolving into genuine affection over the years.

"They've grown again." He shakes his head in mock dismay as he approaches, medical bag in hand despite this being more social call than official visit. "At this rate, they'll outgrow my measuring charts entirely."

The children abandon their game to swarm him with excited greetings. Unlike most medical visits children typically dread, Dr. Wilson's appearances are cause for celebration—his pockets always contain suckers, his examinations incorporate enough games to seem like entertainment rather than healthcare, and his genuine delight in their progress radiates from him.

"Have they been behaving themselves?" he asks me with twinkling eyes as we follow the children toward the house.

"Perfectly awful," I respond with our usual exchange. "Perfectly wonderful."

Inside, our home is alive with the chaos of quintuplet life. Toys throughout the open living space, cute little photographs all over the walls, and child-sized furniture arranged to accommodate five simultaneous activities. It's nothing like the sterile luxury of Mak's former mansion or the bare functionality of the safehouse, but something uniquely ours.

As Dr. Wilson conducts his examinations, I watch Mak assist him, handing out stethoscopes and reflex hammers.

Later, after our visitor departs, and the children settle for afternoon naps that grow increasingly rare as they age, Mak and I steal a moment of quiet on the back porch.

"Any regrets?" he asks softly, the question one we revisit periodically as a check-in rather than from genuine concern.

I consider the question seriously, as I always do. "I miss Gisele, and I miss nursing sometimes.” Other than Zina, we don’t have official jobs. Caring for quints takes a village, as they say, and we work on the vineyard while raising them. “I occasionally miss the simplicity of only being responsible for myself."

His arm tightens slightly around me, acknowledging these truths without defense.

I turn to meet his gaze directly. "No regrets about us or this life we've built."

The relief in his eyes, though subtle, reminds me that beneath his confidence remains the man who once believed himself unworthy of happiness. Even now, with years of evidence to the contrary, part of him still waits for everything to disintegrate, and for the past to reclaim him.

"We're not going anywhere," I remind him, the words a familiar reassurance. "All seven of us are staying right here."

He nods, kissing my forehead with gentle reverence before his expression shifts to something more mischievous. "Even when Alexander inevitably becomes a teenager and tries to steal the car?"

"Even then, but he probably won’t wait until he’s a teenager." I laugh at the thought of our fearless firstborn behind a wheel. "We might need to invest in better insurance."

Mak's laughter joins mine, the sound carrying across the garden, where new life continues to bloom under careful tending. Like my plants, our family has required patience, attention to changing conditions, and faith that what appears dormant is merely gathering strength for future growth. The darkness of our beginnings has transformed into something beautiful, not erased or forgotten but incorporated into the rich soil from which our present happiness grows.

This is the true miracle of our story. Not the statistical improbability of quintuplets or the unlikely pairing of a NICU nurse and aBratvaboss, but the simple, profound truth that love, given proper conditions, can bloom even in the most unlikely places.

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