Chapter 16
16
Wil
I wake disoriented again, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar ceiling above me. The enormous bedroom with its silk sheets and antique furniture feels like a hotel suite rather than a place where someone actually lives. Then reality crashes back, the memories rushing in with brutal clarity. Gisele. Blood. Gunshots. The nightmare that brought me here.
Three days have passed since I arrived at Makari Vorobev's estate, though it feels both longer and shorter somehow. Time has lost meaning in this liminal space between my old life and whatever this new existence will become.
I push back the Egyptian cotton sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The plush carpet feels impossibly soft against my bare feet. Even the small luxuries here feel excessive, designed to impress rather than comfort. The walk-in closet has been filled with designer maternity clothes in my size, tags still attached. The bathroom gleams with marble and gold fixtures. Everything is beautiful, and nothing feels real.
My rosebush sits on the windowsill instead of my nightstand now, catching the morning light. It's the only familiar thing in this gilded cage, the only object that feels truly mine. I cross to it, checking the soil moisture with my fingertip. The familiar routine lets me focus momentarily.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. "Come in," I call, stepping back from the window.
A uniformed maid enters, her gaze downcast as she carries in a breakfast tray. "Good morning, Miss Lamb. I've brought your breakfast."
She places the tray on a small table by the window and busies herself opening the curtains fully, still avoiding direct eye contact. The deference makes me deeply uncomfortable. I'm not used to being served or having people tiptoe around me as if I might shatter or explode.
"Thank you." I approach the table, eyeing the elaborate spread of bacon, fresh fruit, pastries, and what appears to be a custom smoothie designed for pregnancy nutrition. "This is too much food for one person."
The maid finally glances up, surprise flickering across her features before she regains her composure. "The chef can prepare something different if this isn't to your liking."
"No, it's fine. It's just...a lot." I sit down, picking up a strawberry. "What's your name?"
She hesitates, clearly thrown by the personal question. "Anna, miss."
"Thank you, Anna. You don't have to be so formal with me. I'm a nurse, not royalty."
A tiny smile appears before she suppresses it. "Mrs. Petrova says we're to give you every courtesy."
Mrs. Petrova, the matronly housekeeper who took charge of me that first night, her Russian-accented English somehow soothing despite the circumstances. She treats Mak with a maternal authority that seems impossible given his fearsome reputation, yet he accepts it without question.
"Please tell the chef it's delicious but excessive." I try the smoothie, which is surprisingly palatable despite its nutrient-packed appearance. I remember I’m supposed to be eating an additional fifteen hundred calories daily, at least, and this smoothie might contain them all.
Anna nods and retreats, closing the door silently behind her. The interaction leaves me more drained than it should. Even simple conversations require energy I barely have.
After forcing down enough breakfast to satisfy pregnancy nutrition requirements, but sadly still unable to even look at the bacon that I wrap in the napkin, I shower and dress in some of the new clothes. The designer jeans have an expandable panel for my growing belly, though I barely show yet despite carrying quintuplets. The doctor Mak brought to examine me yesterday said that would change rapidly in the coming weeks.
I touch my stomach gently, still struggling to comprehend five lives develop inside me. Five innocent lives already marked by violence before they've even taken their first breaths.
The thought of Gisele hits me again, bringing a fresh wave of grief that nearly buckles my knees. I brace myself against the bathroom counter, breathing through the pain. She died protecting us, and I can't even attend her funeral to say goodbye properly. Leonid, who consulted me to find out if Gisele had family—she didn’t besides me—assured me all arrangements have been handled respectfully and even got my opinion on some aspects, but what does that even mean? Gisele deserved more than arrangements. She deserved to live.
When the grief subsides enough to function, I leave my suite. Two security men stand positioned discreetly in the hallway, pretending not to watch my every move. I think their names are Yakov and Orlov, but I haven’t really bothered to learn them for sure. I’ve just been drifting until now. Their presence is both intimidating and reassuring, a constant reminder that I'm protected.
But also that I’m being watched.
I make my way through the intricate mansion toward the greenhouse Mak created for me. It's become my safe haven, the only place where I can almost forget the circumstances that brought me here. The staff have been instructed not to enter without explicit permission, giving me a rare taste of privacy in this closely observed life.
The greenhouse air envelops me in humid warmth as I enter, the scent of earth and growing things creating a balm for my frayed nerves. I begin my daily routine, checking each plant methodically, pruning, watering, and adjusting positions for optimal light. The familiar tasks require just enough focus to quiet my racing thoughts without demanding energy I don't have.
"You should fertilize the gardenias," says a female voice from the doorway. "They're showing signs of nitrogen deficiency."
I turn, startled by the intrusion. A young woman stands in the entrance, watching me with open curiosity. She's strikingly beautiful, with dark hair falling in loose waves past her shoulders and intelligent eyes that seem vaguely familiar. I’ve seen her in a picture before, with Makari, when I searched his name on the Internet. "Who are you?" I ask, instinctively stepping back.
She enters fully, closing the door behind her. "I'm Zina Vorobev, Mak's sister."
I nod automatically. She has Mak's eyes and strong jawline, though softened into feminine elegance. Where he radiates controlled danger, she projects cultured confidence. "I didn't know he had a sister." I remain wary, unsure of her intentions. “I saw you with him at an event though.”
"Most people don't,” she says as she walks through the greenhouse, examining plants as she passes them. "He keeps me separate from his business affairs. For protection, he says." She rolls her eyes affectionately at this. "Though I suspect it's as much for his peace of mind as my safety."
I watch her carefully. "Did he send you to check on me?"
"No. He doesn't know I'm here." She touches a rose petal gently. "I wanted to meet you myself. After all, you’re carrying my nieces and nephews."
The casual claim to my unborn children makes me tense. "They're not?—"
"Family yet?" she finishes, her gaze direct but not unkind. "Perhaps not by choice, but biology makes its own rules, doesn't it?"
I don't have a ready response to that. The connection between these babies and the Vorobev family is undeniable, however much I might wish otherwise.
"I'm sorry about your friend," she says, her tone softening. "Gisele, wasn't it? What happened to her was terrible."
The genuine sympathy in her voice breaks through my guardedness. "Yes, it was."
"Would you like to sit?" She gestures toward a wrought-iron bench positioned near the center of the greenhouse. "I've ordered tea, if you'd care to join me."
Only now do I notice the tray a staff member has discreetly placed on a small table near the bench. There are two cups, a steaming pot, and what looks like cookies arranged with careful precision.
Curiosity overcomes caution. I follow her to the seating area, taking the spot opposite hers. Her hands are steady as she pours the tea.
"You're nothing like your brother," I say, accepting the cup she offers.
Zina laughs, the sound surprisingly warm and genuine. "We share DNA and history, but that's about where the similarities end." She stirs honey into her tea. "I suppose we're more alike than either of us cares to admit."
"In what way?"
"Stubbornness. Loyalty. A certain...selective blindness when it comes to those we care about." She studies me over the rim of her cup. "He cares about you, you know."
I scoff before I can stop myself. "He doesn't even know me."
"True, but he cares about what you represent." She sets her cup down carefully. "Mak has never allowed himself attachments outside family. You're the first."
"I'm not an attachment. I'm a complication."
"Same thing, in our world." Zina leans back, crossing her legs. "May I be blunt with you, Willemina?"
"Wil," I correct automatically. "And yes, please. I've had enough of careful conversations and unspoken truths."
"Mak wasn't always who he is now." She says this matter-of-factly, but her eyes hold old pain. "Our mother was murdered when I was just an infant. He was eight. Old enough to understand what happened, and young enough to be fundamentally shaped by it."
The information hits me with unexpected force. I knew, intellectually, that men like Mak must have origin stories and reasons they became what they are, but hearing it from his sister makes it suddenly, uncomfortably real.
She continues, her voice soft but steady. "Our father responded by hardening himself completely, and he set about turning Mak into a weapon, an heir worthy of the Vorobev name." She taps a finger seemingly without awareness against her teacup. "I was spared the worst of it. Mak made sure of that."
"How?" Despite myself, I'm drawn into her story.
"He sent me to boarding schools in Switzerland as soon as I was old enough and paid off teachers to never mention our family name. He visited me himself instead of sending men, no matter how dangerous the travel." A fond smile touches her lips. "He would show up at these ridiculous all-girls schools in his thousand-dollar suits, this dangerous-looking man among all these proper young ladies, just to make sure I was safe and happy."
The image she paints clashes with the cold, controlled man I've encountered. "He doesn't seem like the type to care about anyone's happiness."
"Oh, he doesn't. Not generally." She brushes a stray lock of hair from her face. " I'm the exception. The only person he's allowed himself to truly love." She meets my gaze directly. "Until now, potentially."
I shake my head, rejecting the implication. "He doesn't love me. He's possessive of me. There's a difference."
"Perhaps." She doesn't argue. "Possession is the beginning of love for men like my brother. They have to own something before they can permit themselves to care about it."
"That's twisted."
"Yes, it is," she agrees without hesitation. "The Vorobev way often is, but it's also honest, in its way." She picks up a cookie, examining it before taking a delicate bite. "Mak never pretends to be something he's not. That's worth something, isn't it?"
I consider this. In his own strange way, Mak has been direct with me from the moment he revealed his true identity. Terrifying and overwhelming, but not deceptive. Not since that initial lie about his name. Even then, he didn’t invent a completely different person to be that night. He just remained charmingly evasive about what he did, surely knowing if I had realized the truth, I would have run from him before we ever went to that apartment above the club.
"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask finally.
"Because you're carrying my family's future inside you." She gestures toward my stomach. "And because I like you. You have kind eyes."
"You've known me for ten minutes."
"I'm an excellent judge of character." She smiles. "That’s a necessary survival skill in my world. Besides, Mak wouldn't be so fascinated by someone without substance."
The casual observation makes me uncomfortable. "I'm not here by choice."
"No," she acknowledges, her expression sobering, "And what happened to your friend was unforgivable, but now that you are here..." She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "Perhaps understanding who Mak really is might make your situation more bearable."
"Who is he really, then?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "Beyond the man who ordered surveillance on me without my knowledge? Who brought me into a world where my best friend was murdered?"
She doesn't flinch from my anger. "He's a man shaped by violence, who still remembers what it was to be kind. A leader who protects what's his with absolute ruthlessness while privately questioning the cost. A brother who saved me from our father's brutality by absorbing it himself." She leans forward, intensity in her gaze. "He built this greenhouse for you in three days, Wil. Not because he expects gratitude or even forgiveness, but because he thought it might bring you a moment's peace in the midst of chaos."
Her words stir something unwelcome inside me, a reluctant acknowledgment that the monster I've feared might be more complex than I've allowed myself to believe. We sit in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the subtle shifting of leaves and distant birdsong through the greenhouse vents. Zina doesn't press further, seemingly content to let her words sink in at their own pace.
"Will you be staying here?" I ask finally.
"For a while." She nods. "After the recent... unpleasantness, Mak insisted I move back to the estate temporarily."
"I'm glad." The admission surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her. "It would be nice to have someone to talk to besides staff, who won't meet my eyes."
A genuine smile lights her face. "I'd like that too. It gets terribly boring being the only woman in this testosterone-soaked environment. The staff are trained not to gossip with me, and the security men are too afraid of Mak to have real conversations."
For the first time since arriving at the estate, I feel a tentative connection to something beyond my grief and fear. She’s nothing like what I expected from Mak's sister. She's open where he's guarded, warm where he's cold, and expressive where he's controlled. Yet there's something in her directness that reminds me of him, a shared quality of unflinching honesty.
We spend the remainder of the morning in the greenhouse, Zina helping me with the plants, asking thoughtful questions about my nursing career, and sharing carefully edited stories of her childhood. She never pushes for personal information, seemingly content to let me reveal only what I choose.
When she finally leaves for a conference call related to her classes, I find myself looking forward to her promised return tomorrow.
* * *
That evening, when Mak makes his customary brief appearance to inquire about my comfort, I surprise both of us by answering directly instead of with the monosyllabic responses I've given since arriving. "I met your sister today," I say, studying his face for a reaction.
A flicker of surprise crosses his features before his expression returns to its usual careful neutrality. "She mentioned she might visit you. I hope she didn't overwhelm you."
"She didn't." I wrap my arms around myself, an old self-protective gesture. "She told me about your mother. About what happened to her."
Something almost vulnerable flashes in his eyes before disappearing. "Zina talks too much sometimes."
"Or maybe you don't talk enough."
The observation hangs between us, neither accusation nor forgiveness, but simply an acknowledgment of a truth we both recognize. For the first time since I've known him, he seems momentarily at a loss for words.
"Perhaps," he says finally. He meets my gaze directly, without the calculation I've come to expect. "Does it help? Knowing?"
The question catches me by surprise with its unexpected sincerity. Does it help to see the broken child beneath the monster? To recognize that even the most fearsome men have origin stories, reasons they became what they are? "I don't know yet," I say honestly, "But it's a start."
He nods once, accepting this partial truth without pushing for more. As he turns to leave, I'm struck by the strange thought that perhaps we're both equally lost in this unexpected connection. We’re a mob boss and a nurse, linked by five impossible lives and circumstances neither of us could have predicted.
"Goodnight, Wil," he says quietly.
"Goodnight, Mak."
After he's gone, I return to the window, looking out at the greenhouse glowing softly in the distance, and the garden he created just for me. A peace offering? A manipulation? Perhaps both simultaneously?
I place my hand on my stomach, thinking of what Zina said about possession being the beginning of love for men like her brother. The idea should repulse me, but in the quiet darkness of this strange new world, I wonder if understanding the monster might be the first step toward seeing the man beneath.