Chapter 11
11
Mak
I sit alone in my office, the manila folder spread open before me. The contents have become a nightly ritual I can't seem to break, and an obsession I refuse to name. Willemina Anne Lamb, twenty-seven years old, and a NICU nurse at New York Presbyterian with an exemplary record. She was orphaned at seventeen when cancer claimed her mother and has no other family.
The facts are clinical, but I linger on the details that humanize her, like how she donates monthly to a children's cancer charity, how she brings homemade cookies to her coworkers on their birthdays, and how she waters her plants every Tuesday and Friday evening with the dedication of someone who truly understands the value of nurturing life. I've even memorized her schedule by heart. She works nights with four days on and three days off.
"This is becoming problematic," I mutter to myself, closing the folder with more force than necessary.
The office feels oppressively quiet tonight. I should be reviewing the monthly numbers from our shipping operations or planning our response to the Italians' recent territorial push in Queens. Instead, I wonder what Wil is doing at this exact moment. Is she tending to her plants? Reading a medical journal? Sleeping peacefully?
With a sound of frustration, I push away from my desk and cross to the bar cabinet hidden behind a false panel in the wall. The crystal decanter catches the low light as I pour vodka into a glass. I don't typically drink while working but tonight feels different. Heavier somehow. The alcohol burns a clean path down my throat, momentarily distracting me from the confusion that's been plaguing me for weeks.
Twice this week, I've composed messages to her—simple texts that I deleted before sending. What would I even say? Hello, this is the man who lied about his identity before sleeping with you. I've been having my men monitor your movements. Coffee sometime?
The absurdity almost makes me laugh. There's no universe where someone like Willemina Lamb belongs in my world. Her goodness and her genuine nature would wither in the shadows I cast, and yet, I can't stop thinking about the way she smiled without calculation, the way she spoke about her tiny patients with such fierce protectiveness, and the way she looked at me like I was simply a man, not something to be feared or used.
I drain the glass and set it down with a sharp click against the marble countertop. This fixation is unlike me. It’s dangerous even. I've never allowed a woman to occupy my thoughts like this, not even when I was young and foolish enough to believe I could have normal connections. The Vorobev name doesn't permit such luxuries. I learned that lesson through blood, the same way I've learned every important lesson in my life.
Returning to my desk, I pull up the surveillance footage from earlier today obtained from a discreet camera positioned near Wil's apartment building, capturing her return from work. The grainy image shows her walking with slumped shoulders, moving more slowly than usual. She looks tired, or possibly ill. The urge to send someone to check on her health surges through me, but I push it down. That would cross yet another line in a situation already riddled with ethical compromises.
Instead, I focus on work, forcing myself to review shipment manifests that require my approval. The numbers blur before my eyes, failing to capture my attention the way they should. Distraction is weakness. Distraction gets men like me killed. I've admonished my lieutenants for less, yet here I sit, unable to focus because a nurse with kind eyes and a gentle touch has somehow infiltrated my thoughts.
A knock interrupts my internal battle. Three sharp raps, which is Leonid's signature.
"Enter," I call, straightening in my chair and sliding the folder into my desk drawer.
Leonid steps inside, closing the door behind him. His face betrays nothing, as usual, but something in his posture tells me this isn't a routine report. His normally immaculate appearance shows subtle signs of haste. His tie sits slightly askew, and there's a tension around his eyes I rarely see.
"Sir." He approaches my desk, a manila folder clutched in his hand. "There have been developments regarding Ms. Lamb."
My heart rate accelerates, though I maintain my neutral expression. "What kind of developments?"
Instead of answering, he places the folder on my desk and steps back, hands clasped behind him in a stance that somehow communicates both deference and caution. In fifteen years of service, Leonid has never appeared uncertain about delivering information to me. This hesitation alone sets off warning bells in my mind.
I open the folder slowly, uncertain what to expect. The first item is a photograph of Wil entering what appears to be a medical clinic, her roommate Gisele at her side. Wil looks pale, her posture tense with what I recognize immediately as fear. Her normally vibrant eyes are shadowed with worry, one hand clutching Gisele's arm while the other rests protectively across her midsection. The timestamp indicates the photo was taken yesterday morning.
"What is this place?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
"Women's Health Associates in Brooklyn," Leonid answers, his voice carefully neutral.
Something cold slides down my spine as I turn to the next item, which are medical records bearing Wil's name, obtained through methods I deliberately choose not to question. I scan the document, catching phrases like "confirmed pregnancy" and "estimated conception date" that align perfectly with our night together. The clinical language feels surreal as I process what it means.
"Is this accurate?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
"Yes, sir. The information comes directly from their system." He shifts his weight slightly. "I took the liberty of verifying through a secondary source. The information is correct."
I continue through the documents until I reach an ultrasound image labeled with Wil's name and the date from three days ago. I stare at it, momentarily unable to process what I'm seeing—not one amorphous shape as expected, but five distinct formations, each labeled alphabetically. These are tiny clusters of cells that will become people. My people.
"Five," I whisper.
"Quintuplets," Leonid confirms, his aloof demeanor slipping just enough to reveal that he too finds this information staggering. "The doctor's notes indicate it's a natural conception. Extremely rare."
My first instinct is suspicion. This must be a trap, a manipulation, or perhaps some elaborate scheme to extract money or power. The Bratva has taught me to trust nothing, to question everyone's motives, to assume betrayal lurks behind every unexpected development, but as I study the ultrasound more carefully, taking in the clinical notations and considering the statistical improbability, the truth becomes undeniable. The medical impossibility of engineering such a pregnancy, combined with everything I know about Wil's character, solidifies the reality in my mind.
These are my children. Mine and Wil's.
"The medical records include notes about the maternal risks," says Leonid, his tone careful. "Multiple pregnancies of this magnitude carry significant?—"
"Leave me," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
He hesitates, perhaps sensing the shift in my demeanor. "Sir, there's more information about the maternal risks associated with?—"
"Out." This time, there's no mistaking my command.
He nods once and retreats, closing the door silently behind him. Leonid's concern isn't without merit. I know enough to understand that carrying five babies presents enormous physical challenges, but right now, I can't process anything beyond the basic, staggering fact that Wil is pregnant with my children.
The moment I'm alone, I rise from my chair and cross to the windows, my body moving automatically while my mind races. Then I do something I haven't done since my father died—I lock my office door. The simple act of turning the key feels like a confession of weakness no Bratva leader should allow, but I can't risk interruption right now.
My controlled facade crumbles the moment privacy is assured. I press my forehead against the cool glass, breath creating a fog on the window as emotion rises like a tide I can't stop. Five children. My children. A legacy I never planned for and don’t believe I deserve.
For the first time in years, I allow raw feeling to overtake me. Terror floods my system first as I consider the danger this creates, and the vulnerability these children represent. Every enemy I've made would see these children as leverage and Wil as a path to destroy me. The thought ignites something primal in my chest, a fierce protectiveness I've only ever felt for Zina.
I think of my sister, and how I've spent my entire life shielding her from the worst of our world. I've killed men for merely looking at her wrong, or for suggesting they might use her to get to me, and now, there will be five more people whose safety depends entirely on my ability to protect them from the violent life I've chosen.
No one can touch her. No one can threaten her. No one else will raise my children.
My fist connects with the wall before I realize I've moved, the pain barely registering through the storm of emotions. I glance down at my knuckles, watching with detachment as blood wells from split skin. The physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional maelstrom tearing through me.
Possessiveness, an ancient masculine drive to claim and protect what's mine, mingles with the fear. The thought of Wil carrying my children alone, making decisions about their future without me, is unbearable, and beneath it all, something dangerously close to joy flickers, a light I dare not examine too closely.
I've never considered fatherhood. The Bratva life doesn't lend itself to stable family relationships beyond the organization itself. Children are liabilities or vulnerabilities that enemies can exploit. I've seen it happen too many times when bosses are brought to their knees by rivals targeting their families. I swore I'd never create such weakness in myself.
Yet, staring at the ultrasound image again, I can't suppress a surge of wonder. Five distinct beings, created from a single night of connection with the only woman who's made me feel human in years. The statistical improbability stuns me. Five new Vorobevs, when I'd resigned myself to Zina and me being the last of our line unless she chose to have a family some day—a family I would keep well clear of Bratva business.
I pull my phone from my pocket, almost calling Leonid back to arrange immediate protection for Wil, but stop myself. This needs careful planning. The wrong move could terrify her or drive her farther from me. I pace the length of my office, calculating options with none of my usual detachment.
Does she plan to keep them? The thought of her not doing so makes me jerk to a halt in my pacing. She's a single woman with a modest income, now unexpectedly pregnant with quintuplets. Would she consider termination? Adoption? The very possibility makes my blood boil with an intensity that surprises me. I have no right to dictate her choices, particularly when I've given her nothing but a false name and a single night, but the thought of my children—my blood, my legacy—being given to strangers makes something dark and primitive rise within me.
I need more information. Immediately. I unlock the office door from the panel on my desk before I press the intercom. "Leonid, my office. Now."
He appears within moments, composed as ever. I don't bother with preliminaries.
"I need everything. Her financial situation, her medical options… What she's told her doctors about the father, and what she's planning."
Leonid nods, unfazed by my intensity. "We're already gathering that information. Preliminary reports suggest she's keeping the pregnancy. She's scheduled a follow-up appointment with a high-risk pregnancy specialist."
Relief hits me, though it doesn't diminish the urgency. "I need to know the moment she makes any decision. In the meantime, increase surveillance. Be discreet but comprehensive."
"Sir, if I may," he says carefully, "This level of monitoring borders on?—"
"I don't care what it borders on." The words come out in an angry rush. "She's carrying Vorobev heirs. Everything changes now."
The obvious solution crashes through my thoughts with startling clarity. I must bring her here, into my world, where I can protect her properly. The logistics are simple enough. I have the resources to provide everything she and the babies could need. The best medical care, complete security, and every comfort imaginable, but the human element complicates everything.
How do I tell a woman who knows me only as Maxim, a businessman she spent one night with, that I'm actually Makari Vorobev, head of a significant swath of the Russian Bratva in New York? Our only Bratva rivals, the Petrovs, control a much smaller territory. How do I tell a woman who saves babies for a living that their father is a man whose hands are stained with blood and whose name is whispered in fear?
The truth might send her running farther than any distance could measure, and yet, lies have never been an option with her. From the moment we met, something about Willemina Lamb has demanded honesty from me. Even when I gave her a false name, I couldn't bring myself to craft an elaborate backstory, to truly deceive her about who I am at my core.
I dismiss him with a nod, thinking about preparations. In the corridor, Fedor stands waiting, his expression flickering between concern and calculation as he takes in my unusual state.
"Is everything all right?" he asks, falling into step beside me.
I brush past him without answering, already focused on my next move. Fedor has been pushing for more aggressive expansion lately, suggesting riskier moves that I've consistently vetoed. The timing isn't coincidental. He's sensed something shifting in me, perhaps seeing it as weakness to exploit. I've known my cousin long enough to recognize ambition poorly disguised as concern.
Right now, Fedor is a problem for another day. Presently, all that matters is Wil and the five impossible lives growing inside her. She needs to know the truth, however terrifying it might be. She needs to understand the dangers our children now face simply by existing, and I need to convince her that despite everything, despite who and what I am, I can keep them safe.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to her. Not as Maxim the businessman, but as Makari Vorobev, offering whatever protection and support she'll accept from me. She may slam the door in my face. She may hate me for my deception and for the world I represent, but I’ll give her the truth and the choice, even as every instinct tells me to simply take what's mine.
Because somehow, in one night, Willemina Lamb taught me something my father, the Bratva , and fifteen years of power never could. Some things can't be claimed by force and can only be earned through truth.
I will claim what's mine, whatever it takes, but for the first time in my life, I’ll try to do it the right way.