Chapter 17
17
Mak
I stand at my study window, ostensibly reviewing quarterly financial projections but actually watching Wil and Zina in the gardens below. They walk the stone path between flowering beds, and Zina's hands move animatedly as she speaks. The distance prevents me from hearing their conversation, but I see Wil's posture gradually relaxing, her guard lowering incrementally in my sister's presence.
When Wil smiles at something Zina says—a brief, genuine expression that transforms her face—I also smile. Such small victories shouldn't matter to a man who commands an empire built on intimidation and fear, yet this simple curve of her lips feels more significant than any business conquest.
This unexpected friendship between them has become a fixture in the previously solemn household over the past two weeks. Every morning after breakfast, Zina seeks out Wil, and they spend hours together in the greenhouse or library or walking the grounds. The estate feels different with their feminine presence, less like a fortress and more like the home it was meant to be.
I resist the urge to join them, knowing my presence would only reintroduce tension. Instead, I observe from a distance, learning more about Wil through the way she interacts with my sister than I could through direct interrogation. I've discovered she laughs with her whole body when genuinely amused. She touches plants with reverence, as if communicating with living beings. She listens intently, her head tilted slightly when absorbing new information.
She’s also starting to show. I long to put my hand on her belly, but I don’t bother to ask, sure she’d rebuff me.
A knock at the door interrupts my observations. Fedor enters without waiting for permission, a habit that increasingly grates on my nerves.
"The Italians are waiting in the conference room." He approaches my desk, glancing briefly out the window to where Wil and Zina now examine flowering shrubs. "Fifteen minutes already. Not the best way to start negotiations."
I turn from the window reluctantly. "They can wait. Punctuality isn't a virtue in our business."
"True, but there's a difference between strategic lateness and distraction." He adjusts his gold cufflinks, a nervous habit I've noticed increasing lately. "The Moretti family doesn't take well to perceived disrespect."
"Then perhaps they should reconsider their expansion into the docks." I gather the necessary files from my desk. "That's disrespect with actual consequences."
Fedor's expression remains carefully neutral, but disapproval radiates from him, nonetheless. "The men have noticed your...preoccupation lately. There are questions about your focus."
"Let them question. Silently." I step closer, using the three inches of height I have over him to full advantage. "Unless you're suggesting open dissent in my organization?"
He steps back slightly. "Of course not. I'm merely conveying concerns as your second. That's my job."
"Your job is to support my decisions, not question them." I move toward the door. "The meeting starts when I arrive. Not before."
He follows, matching my stride down the corridor. "The woman is changing you, Mak, and not for the better."
I stop abruptly, causing him to nearly collide with my back. "Choose your next words very carefully, cousin."
"I speak only out of concern for our family interests." His tone remains even and reasonable. "You're patrolling the grounds yourself at night. Micromanaging security rotations. Spending hours watching her from windows instead of focusing on business." He gestures back toward my study. "The Mak I know delegates these tasks to focus on strategy."
He's not entirely wrong, which makes his observation more infuriating. I have been handling minor security matters personally, unwilling to entrust Wil's safety entirely to others. I've found myself checking and rechecking measures that previously would have received only cursory attention.
"Perhaps I see vulnerabilities my men might miss." I continue walking, forcing him to catch up. "The estate security was designed to repel external threats, not protect specific individuals within."
"And that's precisely my point." He keeps pace beside me. "You've always prioritized organizational security over individual concerns. It's why we've thrived while other families fractured." His voice drops lower. "Sentimentality is dangerous in our position."
We reach the conference room doors, where I hear voices from inside. I pause before entering, turning to face him directly. "Family has always been my priority. That hasn't changed."
"Family, yes." His eyes narrow slightly. "But she's not family, Mak. Not really. She's a complication… A vulnerability our enemies are already watching. The Kazanovs have increased surveillance on our movements tenfold since word leaked about your...situation."
I step closer, speaking in a harsh whisper. "When I want your opinions on my personal matters, I'll ask for them. Until then, focus on business. Nothing else."
Without waiting for his response, I push open the double doors and enter the conference room, where six Italian men in expensive suits rise from their seats. The conversation shifts instantly to territorial negotiations, import routes, and mutual protection agreements. I participate fully, presenting the persona of the pakhan they expect, but part of my mind remains in the garden with Wil and Zina. That’s where I feel at peace.
By the time the meeting concludes two hours later, we've reached a tentative agreement that benefits both families while costing minimal concessions. I've always excelled at negotiation by reading opponents and leveraging weaknesses. The Moretti underboss leaves visibly relieved, having expected a more contentious interaction.
Fedor gathers his notes methodically as the room clears, his tone suggesting surprise. "Effective as always."
I ignore the implied insult. "Have Leonid verify their shipment documentation before committing resources. The numbers seemed convenient."
"Already arranged." He straightens his impeccable suit jacket. "The men expect you at the Brighton warehouse opening tonight. Your absence would be noted."
The warehouse represents months of planning, a legitimate front business that will streamline our import operations while providing an above-board income stream. My presence at the opening sends a message about its importance within our organization.
"I'll be there." The thought of leaving the estate and Wil creates immediate unease, but it can’t be helped. "Arrange additional security here while I'm gone."
His expression tightens momentarily before smoothing into compliance. "I'll handle it personally."
Something in his tone triggers warning bells, but before I can question him further, Leonid appears in the doorway. "Sir, Ms. Lamb's physician has arrived for her scheduled appointment. You asked to be notified."
"Thank you, Leonid." I turn back to Fedor. "We'll finish this discussion later."
His slight nod contains more resignation than agreement, but I leave without further comment, my thoughts already shifting to Wil's appointment. The high-risk pregnancy specialist I've engaged is the best in the city, with experience in multiple births and a discretion well-compensated by Bratva funds.
I find them in the medical suite I had installed in the east wing specifically for Wil's prenatal care. Dr. Phillips, a reserved woman in her fifties, performs an ultrasound while Zina holds Wil's hand. I pause in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on what feels like a private moment.
On the monitor, five distinct shapes pulse with life, their heartbeats creating a complex symphony through the machine's speakers. Dr. Phillips points to each one in turn, identifying features that appear as indistinct blurs to my untrained eye. "Development continues on schedule." Her voice maintains professional neutrality. "As expected with quintuplets, they're measuring slightly smaller than singleton pregnancies at this stage."
Wil's face shows concern. "Is that something we should worry about?"
"Not yet. It's typical with multiples." Dr. Phillips adjusts something on the machine. "Your blood pressure is slightly elevated, however. I'd like you to monitor it more frequently."
Zina squeezes Wil's hand. "I'll make sure she rests."
Only then does Wil notice me in the doorway. Her expression changes subtly. It’s not quite welcoming, but at least it no longer carries the wariness that characterized our early interactions. "Would you like to see them?"
The invitation surprises me. I step into the room, approaching the examination table with unusual hesitation. The monitor displays what looks like a complex abstract painting to me, but as Dr. Phillips points out their tiny hands, the curve of spines, and the chambers of miniature hearts, the reality materializes with stunning clarity.
"They're healthy?"
"Remarkably so, given the circumstances." She begins printing images from the ultrasound. "Ms. Lamb is doing an excellent job growing five humans simultaneously."
Wil looks exhausted but determined, her hand still protectively placed near her slightly rounded abdomen. The sight stirs something primitive and protective inside me. These are my children. My family. My legacy. Their safety suddenly feels more important than territories or shipping routes or power structures I've spent my life building.
"Thank you, Doctor." I step back, allowing her to complete the examination. "Is there anything specific she needs? Anything I should provide?"
Dr. Phillips gives me a pointed look, clearly aware of who I am despite our careful vetting. "Rest, nutrition, and minimal stress. Multiple pregnancies take an enormous physical toll. The more support she has, the better the outcome for everyone."
After the doctor finishes her examination and packs her equipment, Leonid escorts her from the estate. Zina helps Wil sit up, adjusting pillows behind her back with sisterly familiarity.
"I'll get you some tea." She squeezes Wil's shoulder gently before leaving us alone.
An awkward silence falls between us. Despite sharing meals and occasionally exchanging brief pleasantries, this is the first time we've been truly alone since she arrived at the estate.
"The greenhouse looks good."
"It does." She smooths the examination gown over her knees. "Your sister has quite the green thumb."
"She gets it from our mother. Before she died, there were gardens everywhere. Zina was too young to remember, but she inherited the talent, I’m sure."
Wil studies me with new interest. "You never talk about your mother."
"No." I move to the window, looking out at the grounds where my security teams patrol in careful rotations. "It was long ago."
"Not to you, it seems."
The quiet observation catches me unprepared. She sees more than I've given her credit for. In the reflection of the window glass, I watch her slide carefully from the examination table, wrapping a robe around herself.
"Zina mentioned your father's response to her death shaped you both. That he became harder afterward."
"Zina talks too much." The words lack real anger. My sister has always believed in honesty, even when inconvenient.
"Or maybe you don't talk enough."
I turn to face her, struck by how small she seems in the oversized medical robe, yet how strong is her direct gaze. "What would you like me to say? That my father became a monster after my mother's murder? That he trained me to be an even more effective monster to ensure it never happened again? That violence became our love language because any other form of caring was deemed weakness?"
The words emerge harsher than intended, years of carefully controlled emotion bleeding through. I expect her to retreat, to recoil from this glimpse of darkness. Instead, she steps closer.
"Yes. That's exactly what I'd like you to say. The truth, without calculation or strategy."
The request is so simple, yet so foreign to my existence. Truth without purpose, without agenda. Just raw honesty for its own sake. "I don't know how to do that anymore, if I ever did."
She perches carefully on the edge of a chair, suddenly looking tired. "Try. Start with something small."
I consider this unusual challenge. What truth could I offer that wouldn't frighten her further? What honest thing exists in me that isn't tainted by the life I've led? "I watch you and Zina from my study window. When you walk in the gardens. When you work in the greenhouse together. It...pleases me to see you becoming friends."
Wil tilts her head slightly, processing this admission. "Why?"
"Because you're both important to me in different ways, and because Zina has few genuine connections. People either fear her because of me or want to use her to get to me. She needs someone who sees her for herself."
"And what about you? What do you need?"
The question blindsides me. No one asks what I need. I take what I require and command what I desire. Needs are vulnerabilities I've spent a lifetime disguising.
Before I can formulate a response, Zina returns with tea, effectively ending our unexpectedly intimate conversation. I use the interruption to excuse myself, citing the warehouse opening that requires my presence.
"Will you be gone long?" Wil's question surprises me again.
"Just the evening. Leonid will remain on the premises if you need anything."
She nods, something unreadable in her expression. "Be careful."
The simple phrase, so commonplace in normal relationships, strikes me with unexpected force. When was the last time someone other than Zina expressed concern for my safety? Not for what my death would mean for the organization or the power vacuum it would create, but for me as a person? "Always."
I spend the remainder of the afternoon preparing for the warehouse event, reviewing security protocols and finalizing arrangements, but Wil's question lingers in my thoughts. What do I need? The honest answer feels dangerous even to contemplate.
As evening approaches, I’m drawn to my bedroom rather than immediately departing for Brighton. The room represents the one space, even more so than my office, that truly reflects me rather than the image I project to the world. Unlike the overt opulence of the public areas, this space contains personal touches. There are books I've actually read, mementos with genuine meaning, and photographs I keep for memory rather than to impress people.
I open the carved wooden box on my dresser, removing the most precious item it contains. I swallow hard when I see the faded photograph of my mother holding infant Zina, with me standing solemn-faced beside them. My father took the picture mere weeks before my mother's death, one of the few tangible proofs that we were once something resembling a normal family.
An impulse seizes me, unusual and risky. Before I can reconsider, I leave my room and walk down the corridor to knock softly on Wil's door, where she rests after her appointment.
"I want to show you something, if you're feeling up to it?"
Curiosity overcomes whatever hesitation she might feel. "What is it?"
"Something few people have seen." I extend my hand in invitation. "Will you come with me?"
After a moment's consideration, she nods, rising carefully from her resting position. "All right."