Chapter 13
13
Mak
I stand frozen outside Wil's apartment, the sound of the slammed door still reverberating through the hallway. My fists clench so tightly that my fingernails dig crescents into my palms. The urge to kick down her door pulses through me with frightening intensity. One swift movement is all it would take. The flimsy lock would splinter instantly under my Italian dress shoes.
I breathe deeply, fighting for control. This isn't a business negotiation gone wrong or a rival pushing boundaries. This is the mother of my children rejecting not just my protection but my very presence in their lives.
Through the thin door, I hear her quiet sobs. Each one feels like an accusation, cutting deeper than any knife could reach. She's afraid—of me, of what I represent, and the danger I've brought into her orderly life. The realization stings more than I expected.
I've spent fifteen years building a reputation that makes grown men tremble. Fear is a currency I trade in daily, but hearing Wil cry because of me feels like failure in a way I've never experienced before.
I press my palm flat against the door, a pathetic substitute for the comfort I want to offer. I should leave. Every second I linger only reinforces her perception of me as a threat. Yet my feet remain rooted to the faded hallway carpet as I strain to hear her movements on the other side.
She deserves better than this—better than a man whose name is whispered in fear throughout New York's underworld. Better than a father who puts his children in danger simply by acknowledging them. Her rejection is entirely rational. Why, then, does it feel like she's carved out something vital from my chest?
With monumental effort, I finally turn away. My footsteps sound unnaturally loud as I move toward the stairwell, each one leaden with reluctance. The security man I positioned in the building earlier gives me a respectful nod as I pass. His presence reminds me that regardless of Wil's wishes, I've already begun infiltrating her life. "Report directly to me."
Orlov straightens his posture slightly. "Yes, sir."
"She doesn't know you're here. Keep it that way."
He nods again, returning to his position by the maintenance closet, a perfect vantage point for the hallway leading to Wil's apartment. I selected him specifically for this assignment. Orlov has the rare ability to blend into surroundings despite his size, becoming functionally invisible in plain sight.
I descend the stairs slowly, each step a battle against the instinct to return to her door, to make her understand the dangers she faces without my protection, but forcing my way into her life would only confirm her worst fears about me. Some battles can't be won through intimidation or brute force. This is unfamiliar territory for a man who has spent his life commanding rather than persuading.
Outside, the spring sun feels incongruously bright. The modest Brooklyn neighborhood bustles with ordinary life, but it all seems impossibly distant from my world of luxury penthouses and gritty violence.
I approach the idling SUV, expecting only Leonid behind the wheel. Instead, when I slide into the back seat, I find my cousin Fedor already waiting, his expression a carefully composed mask of concern. Leonid meets my eyes briefly in the rearview mirror, the slight tightening around his mouth telling me this wasn't his idea.
Fedor adjusts his perfectly tailored suit sleeve. "Cousin, I thought I'd join you. Your absence today has left several matters unresolved." He doesn’t need to ask the unspoken question. Why the pakhan of the Vorobev Bratva is making personal visits to a rundown Brooklyn apartment building without explanation or proper security detail?
"Back to the office." I turn away from Fedor, focusing on Leonid's reflection in the mirror.
Fedor and I have grown up together, cousins by blood but raised more like brothers after his father, my uncle, was killed in the territorial disputes of the 1990s. Where I inherited the leadership position through my father's direct line, Fedor has always operated from the secondary position, advising, supporting, and occasionally challenging my decisions. The dynamics between us have grown increasingly complex as we've aged. He's never openly defied me, but his ambition simmers just beneath the surface of every interaction.
As the car pulls away from the curb, I stare out at the passing streets, thinking of Wil in that small apartment with her plants and secondhand furniture. She's created a life of quiet meaning, saving the smallest and most vulnerable patients in her care. Now she carries my children, and I've managed to terrify rather than reassure her.
Fedor casually examines his manicured nails. "I passed two of our surveillance teams on the way here. You've had this building watched for some time. May I ask why?"
His tone is conversational, but nothing about Fedor is ever casual. It’s obvious to me that he wants to get information through my reactions and responses.
I continue staring out the window, deliberately ignoring his question. "You may not."
He accepts the rebuff with grace, shifting tactics smoothly. "The Kazanovs are pushing again at the docks. Their men approached three of our customs officials this morning."
His tone holds a note of satisfaction beneath the concern, as if he's pleased to have urgent business pulling me back to reality. Fedor has always been adept at reading my moods, at knowing precisely when to assert his practical value to the organization.
"Handle it. The usual warning should suffice."
"I'd prefer to send a stronger message." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "A reminder of what happens when they encroach on Vorobev territory."
The old Mak—the Mak from before Wil—would have agreed instantly. Perhaps even suggested something particularly memorable to drive the point home. Now, the thought of more violence, more blood on my hands, makes me weary in a way I've never experienced before.
"No bodies. Just the warning. I don't want police attention right now."
Fedor studies me with barely concealed disbelief. His dark eyes, so similar to my own, narrow slightly as he processes this uncharacteristic restraint.
"Ever since Eclipse, you've been..." He taps his finger against the leather seat. "Distracted. Less engaged with daily operations."
The timing's not coincidental. Everything changed that night, though not for the reasons he suspects.
Fedor gestures vaguely toward the building we're leaving behind. "May I ask what's happening here? This doesn't seem like typical pakhan business."
I consider lying, but Fedor will discover the truth eventually. It’s better he hears it from me than through whispers and speculation. Besides, with the surveillance I've ordered and the precautions I'll need to implement, keeping Wil's existence secret from my inner circle is impractical.
"The woman in that apartment is pregnant with my children." I watch his reaction carefully. "Quintuplets, actually. I know it’s shocking. Damn near gave me a heart attack."
Fedor's composure slips momentarily, genuine shock flashing across his features before he frowns. "Quintuplets? That's... statistically improbable."
"And yet, true beyond a shadow of a doubt."
He absorbs this information with remarkable speed, already leaping far into the future in his head. He does it all the time, so I know he’s trying to calculate the risk involved in this new development.
He drums his fingers briefly against his knee. "How certain are you of paternity?"
"Certain enough." I don't elaborate on the surveillance or medical records I've obtained. Some details remain mine alone.
"I see." He adjusts his position, recalibrating his approach. "And what exactly are your intentions regarding this woman and these... quintuplets?"
"Her name is Willemina Lamb." My tone drops dangerously. "I intend to protect her and my children, with or without her cooperation."
Fedor nods thoughtfully. "So you'll need surveillance. I can arrange it discreetly but effectively. Orlov and Yakov would be suitable."
"Already handled," I say, a hint of smugness in my voice. In truth, I'd reached the same conclusion about which men to assign. The offer is Fedor's way of inserting himself into the situation and establishing relevance.
"Of course." His gaze flick toward the rearview mirror, where Leonid studiously keeps his attention on the road. "You've thought of everything."
The slight emphasis suggests otherwise, but I know it’s because he’s still thinking of issues that could arise from this.
He clears his throat after a quick moment. "Is she aware of who you are? What you are?"
I turn from the window to face him directly. "She is now."
"Ah." The single syllable contains volumes. "And I take it from your mood that she was... less than receptive to this revelation?"
I don't dignify the question with a response, but my silence is answer enough. He sighs, his expression shifting to one of fabricated concern as he briefly places a hand on my shoulder. "Cousin, I must express concern. This woman has you acting unlike yourself. Our rivals watch for any sign of weakness. A woman and five bastards will be the end of the Vorobev empire."
The temperature in the car plummets. Even Leonid tenses, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. The word 'bastards' echoes between us, deliberately provocative. Fedor has always known precisely how to needle me and how to find the hairline fractures in my composure. Today, he's miscalculated.
I don't raise my voice. I don't move, but something in my expression makes him press himself back against the leather seat. "Choose your next words very carefully,” I growl as heat rushes to my face.
He swallows, a nearly imperceptible gesture that betrays his sudden awareness of danger. We might be family, but many men have died for less disrespect than he's just shown.
He raises his hands slightly, placatingly. "I meant no disrespect. I merely suggest that personal entanglements complicate business. The timing isn’t great."
"The surveillance is non-negotiable," I snap as I turn back to the window, effectively ending the discussion.
Fedor nods, suitably chastened, though I don't miss the calculation in his eyes. My cousin has always been ambitious, always watching for opportunities to advance his position within our organization. This unexpected vulnerability, my connection to Wil and our unborn children, represents both a threat to his aspirations and a potential leverage point he's already considering how to exploit.
"As you wish." His tone becomes appropriately deferential now. "We should discuss expansion plans for the Greenwich property when we return to the office. The zoning board vote is scheduled for next week."
His pivot to legitimate business matters is transparent, a reminder that while I focus on personal concerns, he remains dedicated to organizational prosperity. It's a subtle move in our ongoing game of position and influence.
We ride in tense silence for several blocks, the cityscape transforming around us as we move from Brooklyn's residential streets toward the bridge that will carry us to Manhattan. I note Fedor checking his watch repeatedly, a habit that emerges when he's recalculating strategies.
"Something urgent?"
He immediately stops fidgeting with his watch. "I have a meeting with the union representatives at four. Nothing that can't be rescheduled if you need me."
The offer is hollow. We both know I won't request his continued presence. Fedor is testing boundaries to see how much my newfound distraction has affected normal operations.
"Keep the appointment. Have Yuri prepare briefing documents on the Kazanov situation. Full threat assessment, possible leverage points, and known associates. I want it on my desk by morning."
"Of course." He nods, making notes in his phone. The familiar routines of business temporarily mask the undercurrents between us. He seems almost disappointed that I’m reengaged in the conversation, but he needs to realize that even distracted, I’m still ahead of him.
The car falls silent as we cross the bridge back to Manhattan. The gleaming towers of financial power rise before us, a world away from Wil's cozy Brooklyn apartment. I've always moved easily between these contrasting New York realities—the legitimized wealth of Manhattan's elite and the shadow economies that fuel much of it. Now, those worlds seem irreconcilable in ways they never have before.
Inside, I'm spiraling through emotions I haven't allowed myself to feel in years—regret for the path that led me here, fear for the children who will inherit my enemies, and desperate longing for a life I glimpsed briefly with Wil. I don't want to be this man anymore, the monster whose name is whispered in fear throughout New York's underworld.
I wonder if Wil will ever give me a chance to show who I really am beneath my Bratva persona, or if I've already lost her and our unborn children before I ever truly had them. The thought creates an unfamiliar ache in my chest, something dangerously close to grief for possibilities that might never materialize.
Leonid clears his throat quietly, catching my attention in the mirror. "Sir, may I speak frankly?"
I nod, curious despite my foul mood. Leonid rarely offers unsolicited opinions, especially in Fedor's presence. His interruption is timed during a moment when Fedor is distracted by his phone, creating an illusion of privacy despite the close quarters.
"The security measures will protect Ms. Lamb physically, but they won't address the larger issue." His gaze meets mine briefly in the mirror. "She rejected your offer because she fears your world, not because she fears you personally."
"The distinction makes little difference if the end result is the same."
Fedor shifts uncomfortably beside me, clearly displeased by Leonid's familiar tone, but wise enough to hold his tongue. The hierarchy within my organization is clear, but complex. Leonid's years of loyal service have earned him certain privileges, including occasionally speaking to me as a trusted advisor rather than a subordinate. Fedor, despite our blood relationship, hasn't yet earned the same level of implicit trust.
Leonid navigates through a yellow light. "Perhaps, but in my experience, people fear most what they don't understand. Ms. Lamb knows only what the movies and news tell her about the Bratva . She doesn't know the code we live by, or the protections we offer to those under our care."
I consider his words. It's true that Wil looked at me today as if I were some movie villain, a one-dimensional monster with no redeeming qualities. She doesn't know the Vorobev family operates by rules as strict as any legitimate business. That violence, when employed, is strategic rather than random. I've worked for years to move our operations toward legitimate enterprises.
"What are you suggesting?"
He checks the mirrors before changing lanes. "Education. Let her learn about you gradually. Show her the man beneath the reputation."
"She slammed the door in my face, Leonid. I doubt she's interested in getting to know me better."
"Not directly from you, but there are other ways. Perhaps your sister could make contact? Ms. Lamb might be more receptive to another woman, especially one who understands both worlds."
The suggestion gives me pause. Zina has always been my secret weapon in many ways—the gentler face of the Vorobev family, untainted by the violence that defines my reputation. She understands our world but has been sheltered from its ugliest aspects by my constant vigilance.
Fedor looks up from his phone, instantly alert at the mention of Zina. "An interesting idea, but perhaps premature. The woman clearly needs time to adjust to the reality of her situation before we complicate matters further."
The 'we' doesn't escape my notice. Fedor is already positioning himself as part of this deeply personal situation. I'll need to watch him carefully in the coming months.
"I value your concern, cousin," The formality in my tone serves as a subtle reminder of our respective positions, "But Wil and the children are my responsibility alone."
His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Family is never one person's responsibility alone. The Vorobev name belongs to all of us. Five new bearers of that name affects everyone in our organization."
His words are reasonable on the surface, making it difficult to outright reject them without appearing irrational. This is Fedor's particular talent, framing self-interest as collective benefit, and personal ambition as family loyalty.
"We'll discuss this further when appropriate." I turn away, effectively closing the conversation as the car turns into the underground parking garage beneath our office building.
Leonid maneuvers the SUV into my reserved space, the transition from daylight to shadow feeling symbolic somehow. He opens my door, standing at attention as I exit. Fedor follows, straightening his already immaculate suit.
He smooths his tie. "I'll have those Kazanov reports prepared and, Mak," He pauses, using my informal name deliberately, a reminder of our shared childhood, "Congratulations. Children are a blessing, regardless of the circumstances."
I can't determine whether the sentiment is genuine or total bullshit. With Fedor, it's often both simultaneously, real emotions deployed for maximum effect. I acknowledge his words with a nod before turning toward the private elevator that will carry me to the executive floor.
Alone in the ascending car, I finally allow myself a moment of unguarded reflection. The statistical improbability of quintuplets feels like fate's particular joke on a man who never planned for a family by suddenly gifting him five at once. The absurdity of it almost makes me smile.
When the elevator doors open to the executive floor, I've composed myself again, the mask of the pakhan firmly in place. My assistant rises immediately, tablet in hand, ready to recite the afternoon's schedule, and I try to return to business. Through the afternoon, strange surges of hope trough and crest. It’s not the confidence that comes from solid planning and overwhelming force, but something more fragile and unfamiliar. It’s a hope that somehow, despite everything, this impossible situation might lead to something I never knew I wanted until now.
A family.
My family.