FAZER LOGINFaina GreenI didn’t sleep that night.The images of the purple bruises on Darya’s pale skin wouldn’t leave my head. Each mark felt like a direct accusation against me — against us — for letting Michael into our home.By morning, I had already confronted my daughter three times.The first was right after breakfast. I pulled her into the office before she could go down for training.“Show me your arms, Darya.”She crossed her arms, stubborn, her green eyes blazing with anger.“Mom, stop it. I already told you it wasn’t him. It’s from the heavy training. I’m too pale and anything marks me.&rdqu
Faina GreenDarya had turned sixteen just over a month ago, and the mansion seemed smaller with each passing day. The air felt heavier. The walls are narrower. And the secret my daughter carried no longer fit inside her.I was in the kitchen alone, preparing breakfast for the quintuplets who were still sleeping, when Yakov and Vasily walked in. The two were sixteen now, almost identical to their father in height and posture, but with blue eyes and the same protective instinct I recognized in myself.They closed the door behind them. Neither smiled.“Mom…” Yakov began, his voice low, almost a whisper. “We need to talk to you.”Vasily glanced at his brother, then at me. His jaw was clenched.
Faina GreenThe following months passed in a blur of silent tension that only I seemed to feel with clarity.Darya was fifteen now. Fifteen years old, with a woman’s body beginning to take shape and the mind of a girl who still thought she could hide everything from me. I saw the small but impossible-to-ignore changes: the way she took longer to come down from her room after training, the phone she now kept face-down at all times, the smile that appeared on her face only when Michael entered the room.And the worst part: the way she was starting to lie.“It was just extra training, Mom,” she would say, her green eyes avoiding mine as she holstered her knife.And the lie was always the same — a phrase already memorized, one
Faina GreenTwo years had passed since Michael Holloway first walked through the door of our home, and the mansion had found a strange, fragile rhythm. The chaos of the quintuplets — now eight years old and twice as loud — still filled every hallway, but Darya had changed. At fourteen, my daughter was no longer the little girl who ran to me with scraped knees and endless questions. She had grown tall and graceful, with my curly blonde hair and Heros’s sharp green eyes. Her movements carried a quiet confidence that squeezed my chest with both pride and fear at the same time.It was on a cold autumn afternoon that I first noticed.I was in the winter garden, reviewing the latest reports Pyotr had sent from Moscow, when laughter drifted through the open doors. Darya and Michael were training again. They had been doing it m
Faina GreenThe days following my conversation with Darya and the boys were marked by a silent tension that only I seemed to feel.The house routine continued, apparently normal. In the mornings, the quintuplets invaded the kitchen like a tiny hungry army. In the afternoons, training is in the basement. At night, long dinners with Pyotr telling old Bratva stories and my five husbands exchanging discreet glances every time Michael entered the room.I observed everything.Darya kept her promise… at first.During training, she kept her distance. She only spoke when necessary and only corrected his posture when Zedekiah or Heros asked. But I noticed the small details she thought no one saw: the way she smiled when Michael hit a difficult target, the slight blush on her cheeks when he praised her throw, the quick glances they exchanged when t
Faina GreenThe weeks following Michael’s arrival felt like walking on thin ice: beautiful on the surface, but dangerous with every step.I tried to keep the house routine as normal as possible. The triplets trained every afternoon in the basement, the quintuplets ran through the mansion like a pack of little wolves, and Pyotr stayed with us more than usual—as if he, too, sensed that something was about to change.It was a cold March afternoon when everything became sharper.I was in the second-floor library reviewing Bratva reports my father had sent when I heard laughter coming from the winter garden. I stood up and went to the window.Darya and Michael were there.She was showing him how to spin a training knife correctly. Michael watched attentively, but it wasn’t just the knife he was looking at. His
Heros GreenAfter stopping by headquarters to handle our pending matters and contacting our brothers at the warehouse to verify the weapons deliveries, Luther reminded me that we needed to buy some new clothes for Liora. Even though he liked seeing her wearing his shirts,
Liora VossThe other side of the bed was empty and messy, a silent reminder of the turmoil from the night before. I looked toward the window and saw that the sun was already high in the sky, casting a vibrant light that contrasted sharply with the darkness still weighing on my chest. The silence in
Luther GreenMy brothers watch me as if I’m a bomb about to detonate. Maybe I am.The stitches from the wounds I received at the Black Velvet have healed, but the rage inside me remains an open, festering wound. The doctor said I needed another week of complete rest. I stared at him until he lowered
Liora VossHeros decided he wouldn’t leave me alone at home. His brothers had left early to handle different matters—Luther and Noah were at the port collecting a debt, while Lohan and Zedekiah were checking a shipment arriving that night. The Ndrangheta headquarters was the only place he considered







