Chapter 12
12
Wil
I jump at the unexpected knock on my apartment door. It's my first day off in almost two weeks, and I wasn't expecting visitors. Maybe it's a package delivery, or Gisele forgot her keys again—something she does with alarming regularity despite my suggestions about a spare hidden somewhere.
"Coming," I call, setting aside my laptop where I've spent the morning researching high-risk multiple pregnancies.
The statistics and medical recommendations swim before my eyes, a blur of terrifying possibilities and slim odds. The Internet doesn’t sugarcoat anything. Quintuplets face significant risks. Premature birth is almost guaranteed, as are low birth weights, along with potential developmental delays, and a host of possible complications, and that's not even considering the maternal risks that include preeclampsia, gestational diabetes, and placental issues. The list goes on, each possibility more daunting than the last.
I take a fortifying sip of ginger tea, the only thing that seems to help with the constant nausea, before heading to the door. The smell of toast from breakfast still lingers in the apartment, a reminder of the few foods I can currently tolerate.
When I swing it open, the world tilts sideways.
Maxim stands in my hallway, looking even more handsome than I remember. He's impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that screams expensive tailoring, clean-shaven, and completely unexpected. His presence in my modest apartment building feels like some strange collision of universes that were never meant to intersect.
"Wil." His voice is exactly as I remember, deep and lightly accented.
I grip the doorframe tightly. "How did you find me?" Dumb question. He must have my address since he sent a rosebush. Even unsigned, I knew it had to come from him. Why didn’t that worry me more at the time? I guess the plant distracted me, and I had still been caught in a postcoital hangover.
Instead of answering, he moves forward with an intensity that makes me instinctively back up. I retreat into my apartment, and he follows uninvited, closing the door behind him. Something about his fluid movements reminds me of a predator, being both graceful and dangerous.
He looks jarringly out of place among my secondhand furniture and collection of houseplants. The man from the luxury hotel suite now stands in my tiny living room where the ceiling fan wobbles when set above medium speed, and the couch has a permanent indent from Gisele's movie marathon sessions. His expensive watch probably costs more than three months of my rent.
"I need to speak with you," he says, his gaze taking in every detail of my space with unsettling thoroughness.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly conscious of the baggy T-shirt and yoga pants I'm wearing. "About what?"
"First, I should introduce myself properly." He stands taller, shoulders squaring. "My name is not Maxim. It's Makari Vorobev."
The name means nothing to me, but something in the way he says it—expecting recognition—makes me tremble. "You lied about your name?" My voice rises slightly. It's hardly the worst thing a one-night stand could lie about, but it stings, nonetheless.
"Yes." He doesn't flinch from the admission. "I'm pakhan —the head—of most of the Russian Bratva in New York."
I stare at him blankly for a moment before the words register fully. Russian Bratva . The Mafia. The realization makes me gasp. I've slept with a mobster, and I'm carrying a mobster's children. "That's not funny," I say, hoping desperately that this is some bizarre joke.
"I'm not attempting humor." His expression remains serious. "I know about the pregnancy, Wil. About the quintuplets."
My hand moves protectively to my still-flat stomach, a reflexive gesture I can't control. Fear replaces shock as thoughts whirl through my mind. How long has he been watching me? How did he access my medical records? What does he want?
"How do you know that?" My voice sounds strangled even to my own ears.
"I have resources." He says it matter-of-factly, as if invading my medical privacy is perfectly reasonable. "You're not safe, Wil. Our children won't be safe once word gets out."
Our children. The casual claim sends a surge of anger through me, cutting through the fear. This man, this stranger really, walks into my home and starts talking about "our" children as if he has any right to them after one night together.
"Safe from what?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Safe from the world he inhabits, the world of violence and crime that I've only seen in movies.
"From my enemies." He takes a step toward me, and I counter with a step back. "Other families would see you and the babies as leverage against me. As weaknesses to exploit."
"So we're just liabilities to you?" The words come out sharp, fueled by rising indignation.
"No." He runs a hand through his dark hair, a gesture that seems surprisingly human from someone who otherwise holds himself with such rigid control. "You're carrying my children. I want to protect you. All of you. I have an estate outside the city with security, medical facilities?—"
"Stop." I hold up my hand, unable to process everything he's saying. "You expect me to just... What? Move in with you? A complete stranger, who lied about his identity and who apparently has been stalking me and accessing my medical records without my consent?"
His jaw tightens. "I understand this is overwhelming."
"Overwhelming?" I laugh, the sound bitter and slightly hysterical. "This isn't overwhelming. This is insane. You're a criminal. You're asking me to raise children in a world of violence and danger."
"I can keep you safe," he insists, his voice hardening with conviction. "My home is the safest place for you and our children."
"They're not 'our' children," I snap, fear transforming into fury. "You contributed genetic material during a one-night stand. That doesn't make you a father."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, but I'm too angry to care. I gesture wildly around my apartment, at the life I've built for myself.
"Do you think I want that kind of life for my babies? Growing up surrounded by bodyguards and bulletproof glass? Learning that their father solves problems with violence and intimidation? That's not a childhood. That's a prison sentence."
"You don't understand the danger?—"
"No, you don't understand." I cut him off, my hands shaking with emotion. "I'm a NICU nurse. I spend my days fighting for the smallest, most vulnerable lives. I won't bring my children into a world where violence is normalized and their father's business puts targets on their backs."
I think of my tiny patients, the premature babies I've cared for over the years. Their struggles are already enormous without adding the complications of a dangerous family background. How many times have I seen infants born to parents involved in drugs or violence? How many times have I silently judged those parents for the choices that put their children at risk before they even took their first breath?
"Wil, be reasonable." His voice remains frustratingly calm, which only fuels my anger. "You can't protect five babies alone."
"I want nothing from you," I say, my voice dropping. "No money, no protection. Nothing except to be left alone to raise my children far away from whatever bloody business you're involved in."
I back toward the door, reaching behind me for the handle. "I want you to leave. Now."
He doesn't move. "We need to discuss this rationally. Think about what's best for the babies."
"I am thinking about what's best for them." My voice rises despite my effort to control it. "A life free from fear and violence is what's best for them. A normal childhood is what's best for them."
"There's no normal childhood possible now." His accent thickens slightly with emotion. "The moment you became pregnant with my children, normal ceased to be an option. I have a right to know my own children."
Something in me snaps at his presumption. Who is he to talk about rights when he's violated my privacy so thoroughly? "Get out!" I yank open the door, pointing into the hallway. "Get out before I call the police."
For a long moment, he stares at me, and I wonder if he'll refuse. Will he show his true colors and force his way into my life the way he forced his way into my apartment? Instead, he takes a step toward the door, pausing just before crossing the threshold.
"This isn't over, Willemina." His voice is low, almost gentle despite the implicit threat. "I'll give you time to process, but we will speak again. The safety of our children isn't negotiable to me."
The moment he steps into the hallway, I slam the door with enough force to rattle the frames on my walls. The sound is satisfying in its finality, a physical manifestation of the boundary I've just established.
My legs give out as the adrenaline crashes, and I slide to the floor with my back against the door. Tears I was holding back begin to fall, leaving hot tracks down my cheeks as the full weight of the situation crashes over me.
Through the solid wood, I hear him remain motionless for several long moments. I hold my breath, wondering if he'll knock again and demand re-entry. Finally, his footsteps retreat down the hallway, growing fainter until I can no longer hear them.
I wrap my arms around my middle, a futile protective gesture. The father of my children is a Mafia boss. The reality feels absurd, like something from a bad movie, but the fear coursing through me is painfully real.
What do I do now? How do I protect five babies from a world I know nothing about? How do I keep them safe from their own father and the dangers that surround him?
I think of my own childhood, of growing up with just my mother in our small house with the beautiful garden. It wasn't perfect—we struggled financially after Dad left—but it was peaceful. Safe. Filled with love rather than fear. That's what I want for my children, not bulletproof windows and security details. Not a father whose hands might be stained with blood.
The memory of my mother's garden brings a fresh wave of grief. She would have known what to do. She always did. When my father walked out on us, she picked up the pieces and created a stable, loving home. When money was tight, she found ways to make ends meet without ever letting me feel the strain. When cancer came for her, she faced it with the same quiet determination she approached everything in life.
"What would you do, Mom?" I whisper to the empty apartment. "How do you protect five babies from something like this?"
I push myself up from the floor on wobbly legs and make my way to the kitchen. My hands shake as I fill the kettle for more tea, spilling water on the counter. Deep breaths, I remind myself. Stress isn't good for the babies.
The babies already depending on me to make the right choices. The odds were already stacked against us—a single mother with a modest income trying to raise quintuplets. Add in a Mafia boss father, and the situation becomes truly impossible.
I sink into a kitchen chair. Should I move? Change my name? Would that even work against someone with Makari Vorobev's resources? He found me easily enough already, accessing information that should have been private.
The kettle whistles, startling me from my spiral of panic. I make the tea automatically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails. The familiar routine steadies me somewhat, giving my hands something useful to do while my mind works through impossible scenarios.
I carry the steaming mug to the window where my plants thrive in the morning sunlight. The rosebush I've tended since my mother's death stands proudly among them, a living connection to the woman who taught me what it means to nurture. What would she advise in this impossible situation?
She'd tell me to be practical. To take things one step at a time. To focus on what I can control rather than what I can't.
Right now, I can control my health and that of my babies. I can continue my research, make my medical appointments, and prepare as best I can for five premature births, which is what the statistics suggest will happen. I can control how I respond to Makari's intrusion with firm boundaries and legal protections if necessary.
I take a sip of tea. The nausea temporarily recedes, giving me a moment of physical relief if not mental peace.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I tense until I see Gisele's name on the screen. The text reads:
Grabbing lunch before work. Want anything? You're probably craving something weird by now.
The normality of it almost makes me laugh. Gisele has no idea my world just imploded when the father of my babies revealed himself to be someone dangerous and powerful, who won't easily accept my rejection.
I text back.
Nothing weird yet. Maybe some crackers? Nausea's bad today.
I don't mention Makari's visit. Not yet. I need time to process it myself before I can explain it to someone else.
Settling back on the couch, I pick up my laptop again, but instead of pregnancy research, I type "Makari Vorobev" into the search bar. The results confirm my worst fears. News articles detail suspected criminal activities, though nothing that ever led to charges. Photos show him at charity events and high-profile restaurant openings, always immaculately dressed, always surrounded by beautiful people. Always looking untouchable.
One photo in particular catches my attention of Makari with a young woman who bears a striking resemblance to him, perhaps a sister or cousin. His expression in this photo differs from the others. There's something gentle in the way he looks at her, both protective and proud.
I close the laptop, unable to reconcile these images with the man I met at the club, and the man who just stood in my living room claiming rights to my children. Which version is real? The charming businessman? The hardened criminal? The protective family man? All of them? None of them?
It doesn't matter, I tell myself firmly. Whatever combination of personas makes up Makari Vorobev, he belongs to a world I want no part of. A world no child should be raised in.
My hand returns to my abdomen. "I'll protect you," I whisper, the promise fierce and desperate. "Whatever it takes."