The Mafia’s Quintuplets

Chapter 1

1

Mak

“T he Kazanov family is getting too bold, and I think you should know about it,” Fedor says, sliding a folder across my desk. “They’ve moved three dealers into our territory on the west side.”

I don’t immediately reach for it. Instead, I stare at the Manhattan skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office. Forty stories up, the city looks so peaceful, just orderly grids of light and shadow, with the occasional patch of green.

“Did you hear me, Mak?” Fedor leans forward, his thick eyebrows pulling together like they had strings attached. “This is the second time this month. It’s serious.”

“I heard you,” I grumble, finally taking the folder and flipping it open. Inside are surveillance photos of young men on street corners. They’re boys, really, trying too hard to look tough in their designer knockoffs and pathetic gold chains. Expendable pawns sent to test my boundaries.

I let out a sigh. “Have Leonid handle it. The usual message.”

Fedor chuckles, the sound devoid of actual humor. “Broken fingers or broken kneecaps?”

“Fingers first. We’re civilized, after all.” I close the folder and toss it aside, already bored with the conversation. These territorial disputes used to get my blood pumping. The complex game of power, respect, and terror. Now, they’re just tedious administrative details, problems with obvious solutions that don’t deserve my personal attention.

I’ve grown up, but the mafia world is still in its infancy.

“The Eclipse acquisition is moving forward. The sale will be final as soon as you sign the paperwork, and only then will the Kazanovs learn it’s a done deal,” Fedor continues, undeterred by my disinterest. “Once we control that nightclub, we’ll have locked down the entire Meatpacking District. That’s perfect for expanding our distribution network and laundering operations.” His eyes gleam with enthusiasm that I can’t help but to envy. How exciting this must all be to him.

“The paperwork is on top of the pile.” I gesture to the stack of documents awaiting my signature. “I’ll review it tonight.”

He studies me with narrowed eyes. We share the same Vorobev blood, cousins who grew up more like brothers in this merciless business, but lately, I sense he’s growing frustrated with me. He rubs his chin, studying me like I’m that easy to read. “You seem distracted these days. Is something troubling you?”

There is something. Well… everything, really.

Everything is troubling me, though I can’t articulate exactly why. I’ve achieved everything my father said mattered. Territory, respect, power, and wealth. The Vorobev name makes men tremble throughout the five boroughs, and yet I feel nothing but a creeping emptiness, a sense that I’m merely going through motions established by men long dead.

Is this all there is?

“I’m fine,” I blurt, swiveling my chair to face the window again, dismissing Fedor’s concerns.

Fedor sighs, but gets the message and doesn’t press the issue further. “The captains are waiting for direction on the Colombian shipment. Should I tell them you’ll join the meeting, or shall I handle it?”

“Handle it.” I wave my hand without turning around. “Use the usual routes with increased security on the docks. Nothing flashy.”

I listen to him walk to the door, but he doesn’t leave. He lingers there, his heavy breathing a giveaway of his presence. “You know, Mak, your father would never have delegated something so important.”

I turn slowly, fixing him with the stare that’s made hardened criminals confess their sins unprompted. “My father is dead. I’m not. You decide who makes better decisions.”

Fedor’s jaw tightens. He nods once and leaves, closing the door behind him with deliberate softness that somehow communicates his disapproval more effectively than a slam would have.

Alone again, I loosen the silk tie that suddenly feels like it’s trying to hang me.

My father ruled through brutality, each act of violence precisely calibrated to maximize terror. I learned his lessons well. Perhaps too well. Now, at thirty-six, I rule an empire built on blood and fear, and I’m suffocating within it.

I check my watch, and it’s nearly seven. Zina will be waiting for me.

I stand, shrugging into my tailored jacket and adjusting my cufflinks, which are platinum with the Vorobev family crest etched into them. They were a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday, the same day he handed me a gun and ordered me to kill for the first time.

I push away the memory. It felt more like a gang initiation than the prestigious event he made it out to be.

As I leave, I find the hallway to be empty and quiet. My staff knows better than to linger after hours unless explicitly instructed. Two guards fall into step behind me as I approach the elevator, maintaining a respectful distance.

The private elevator descends directly to the underground garage where my driver, Pavel, stands at attention beside a black Maybach. He opens the door without a word, face carefully blank. I slide into the leather interior, inhaling the scent of power and isolation.

“Home,” I instruct Pavel. “Dinner with Zina tonight.”

“Yes, Mr. Vorobev.” Pavel pulls smoothly into Manhattan traffic, our security vehicle following close behind.

I watch the sidewalk through the thick bulletproof windows, observing people living ordinary lives, laughing couples holding hands, friends gathering at restaurants, and families heading home after work. Their world and mine exist in parallel, never truly intersecting. To them, I’m just another wealthy businessman in an expensive car. They don’t see the blood on my hands or know that their neighborhoods operate under my invisible control.

My phone vibrates with a message from Zina, pulling my attention away from the outside world.

Dinner at 8. Don’t be late, brother. I’m making that pasta you like.

I smile, the first real one today. Zina, my little sister, is the only pure thing remaining in my life. Twenty-three years old and brilliantly intelligent, she represents everything I’ve sacrificed to protect. Our mother died when Zina was just an infant, officially from complications after childbirth, though whispers suggested a rival family’s involvement. Those whispers stopped when every person who repeated them disappeared. My father never remarried, instead channeling his grief into ruthless expansion of our territory. He raised me to be his weapon, but he allowed me to shield Zina from the worst of our world.

I type back.

On my way. Save me some wine.

The car turns onto the private road leading to our family estate outside the city. Unlike the flashy mansions of “new rich” criminals, our home is understated in its luxury. A nineteenth-century stone manor set far back from the road, it’s surrounded by old-growth trees and discreet security measures. Four generations of Vorobevs have lived and died here, their portraits watching from walls, judging each successor’s worthiness to carry the name.

Pavel stops at the main entrance. “Will you need the car again tonight, sir?”

“No. You’re dismissed until morning.” I step out, nodding to the security team patrolling the grounds. They report to Leonid, the only man whose loyalty I trust implicitly. Not out of fear, but because he’s known me since childhood, before the brutality was beaten into me.

The moment I step through the doorway, I feel the pressure slide off my body. Here, with Zina, I can almost remember the person I was before the mafia.

“You’re early,” she calls from the kitchen.

I follow her voice, finding her in a flour-dusted apron, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun as she stirs something on the massive professional stove. Mrs. Petrova, our housekeeper since before I was born, hovers nervously nearby.

“Miss Zina insisted on cooking herself, Mr. Makari,” she says apologetically. “I told her I could handle it.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Petrova.” I wave away her concerns. “My sister is stubborn like our mother.”

Zina beams at the comparison, though neither of us has more than photographs to know if it’s true. “I wanted to try making your favorite pasta dish from the recipe in that Italian cookbook you brought me,” she says. “Your staff can set the table, but I’m making the food.”

I loosen my tie and roll up my sleeves, approaching to peer into the pot. “It smells good. Better than the disaster with the French sauce last month.”

She swats at me with a wooden spoon. “That was sabotage. Someone turned up the heat when I wasn’t looking.”

I laugh, the sound foreign to my own ears. In this kitchen, with flour on Zina’s nose and the scent of garlic and basil filling the air, I can pretend we’re normal, that our family business involves importing olive oil instead of weapons and drugs, and the men stationed around our property are ordinary security rather than killers who’ve sworn their lives to the Vorobev name.

“Go change,” Zina says, waving her spoon at me again. “Dinner is in twenty minutes in the small dining room.”

I acquiesce, heading upstairs to my suite. The bedroom is immaculate as always, with everything in its precise place. I swear it gets cleaned multiple times a day, but I’m never here to prove anything.

I strip off my wrinkled suit and step into the shower, scrubbing away the day under water hot enough to burn my skin. Sometimes, I stand in the shower for over an hour with my eyes closed. No thoughts. Just… peace.

Clean and dressed in casual clothes that few outside this house would ever see me wearing, I return downstairs. The “small” dining room still seats twelve comfortably, but it’s the most intimate space in this mausoleum of a house. Zina has set two places at one end of the table, with candles and fresh flowers between them.

“Very fancy,” I say as she brings in a steaming platter of pasta. “What’s the occasion?”

“Can’t I just want a nice dinner with my brother?” She pours red wine into crystal glasses that belonged to our grandmother. “Besides, I have news.”

I tense instinctively. I knew something was up.

She notices my reaction and rolls her eyes. “Relax, Mak. It’s not about... all that.” She waves her hand dismissively at the empire that funds her comfortable existence but remains largely unacknowledged between us. “I’ve been accepted to the doctoral program at Columbia for Comparative Literature.”

My heart jumps into my throat. “Zina, that’s excellent. You’ve always wanted?—”

My phone buzzes, cutting me off. Fedor’s name flashes on the screen, but I silence it without answering.

“Important?” she asks, her smile fading slightly.

“Nothing that can’t wait.” I raise my glass. “To Dr. Vorobev, the future queen of academia.”

She clinks her glass against mine but hesitates before drinking. “I was thinking... Maybe I shouldn’t use our family name.”

The air goes still between us. The Vorobev name opens certain doors but permanently closes many others, especially for Zina, who deserves a future unburdened by our bloody legacy. “You could use Mother’s maiden name,” I suggest carefully. “Petrov is common enough.”

Relief washes over her face. “That’s what I was thinking. Not that I’m ashamed, Mak, but…”

I cut her off gently. “You don’t have to explain. I understand better than anyone.”

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the pasta actually quite good despite Zina’s haphazard approach to cooking. I’m about to compliment her when my phone buzzes again. Not Fedor this time, but Leonid.

I frown. Leonid would never interrupt unless it was important.

“Take it,” she says with a resigned sigh. “It’s fine.”

I step into the hallway, keeping my voice low. “What is it?” I ask, annoyed to have to leave dinner with Zina.

“The Kazanovs responded to our message,” Leonid says, his voice tight in his throat. “They’re pushing back against the Eclipse acquisition. They want a meeting.”

I exhale slowly. Not unexpected, but irritating. The Eclipse nightclub sits at the edge of contested territory. “When?” I ask him.

“They’re suggesting this Friday night at Eclipse itself. A neutral ground situation, before the paperwork is finalized.”

I consider this. A meeting is better than escalation. “Tell them I’ll be there. Standard security protocols, but nothing excessive. We don’t need a show of force for a simple conversation.”

“Yes, sir.” Leonid pauses. “Should I brief Fedor?”

“I’ll handle Fedor. Just confirm the meeting.” I end the call and return to the dining room.

Zina is watching me, her pasta already forgotten. “Everything okay?” she asks, studying my face.

“Just business. Nothing serious.” I slide back into my seat and take a bite of my food. “This is actually very good. You’ve been practicing.”

She smiles, but her eyes remain concerned. “You don’t have to leave?”

“Not tonight.” I reach for my wine glass. “Tonight, we’re just going to enjoy dinner.”

A smile creeps onto her face, and her shoulder drop a few inches.

We finish dinner exchanging stories and plans for her doctoral program. By the time we reach dessert, store-bought tiramisu that Zina pretends she made, I’ve almost pushed thoughts of the Kazanovs from my mind.

Almost.

After dinner, upon learning she’s planning to spend a few days in the city, I insist on having Pavel drive Zina back to her apartment before taking me home. She maintains her own place near Columbia, a concession I made when she started graduate school, though the building’s security rivals that of some government facilities. Her neighbors include diplomats, a starlet, and three investment bankers, so I feel almost at ease with her there. Her security team will be observing her as always, to her annoyance.

“You don’t have to escort me up,” she says as Pavel pulls to a stop outside her building. “I’m a big girl now.”

“Humor me.” I follow her inside, nodding to the doorman who straightens perceptibly at my presence, catching sight of the SUV carrying her guards driving past the building, clearly on the way to park in the garage. We go up to her apartment, where I perform my customary security check while she pretends not to notice.

“All clear,” I announce, only half-joking. “Try to stay out of trouble until Friday. I have a business meeting that night, but maybe we can have dinner this weekend.”

“I’d like that.” She hugs me tightly. “Be careful, Mak, and remember who you are under all of... that.” She gestures vaguely at what she calls my “business persona.”

That’s the problem. I’m no longer sure there’s anyone left under the monster I’ve become. I’ve played this role for so long that the boundaries have blurred beyond recognition, but I just nod and kiss her forehead before leaving.

Pavel is waiting with the car. “Home, sir?”

“Yes.” I slide into the back seat, suddenly exhausted. As we drive through the nighttime city, I watch the passing lights and shadows, feeling the weight of two different lives pulling at me, the brother who celebrated his sister’s achievement tonight, and the Bratva boss who will face the Kazanovs on Friday.

The emptiness returns, stronger than before. This is what my existence has become. Endless cycles of negotiations and territorial disputes, power maintained through intimidation, and relationships reduced to strategic assets or liabilities. Even in this moment of relative peace, I recognize the hollowness at the center of it all.

My phone buzzes with a text from Fedor.

We need to discuss Kazanov meeting details. Leonid said Friday?

I don’t respond immediately, instead watching the city lights blur past the window. Tomorrow, I’ll strategize and prepare, embracing the role my father created for me, but tonight, just for these few moments in the quiet darkness of the car, I allow myself to wonder whether there might still be something human left within me beyond the monster I’ve become.

Tomorrow, the cycle will continue, endless and unchanging unless something breaks the pattern, or someone breaks me.