Page 32 of The Mafia's Septuplets

A man in a dark sedan three rows away appears to be reading a newspaper, but his position gives him a clear view of the clinic entrance. Another figure near the medical building’s side entrance seems to be talking on his phone, but his attention keeps drifting in our direction.

She follows my line of sight, tension creeping into her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“I think we’re being watched.” The words sound paranoid even to me, but the feeling is too strong to ignore. “ Do those men seem normal to you?”

She studies the parking lot with careful attention while trying to be discreet. “I don’t see anything obvious. Are you sure you’re not just feeling paranoid because of everything that’s happened?”

I watch for another minute, noting how both men maintain their positions while other people come and go. The sensation of being observed feels physical, like pressure against my skin, but there’s nothing overtly off about their behavior or presence. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.” I slide into the passenger seat, though unease continues to crawl up my spine. “Let’s go home.”

She gets behind the wheel to start the car and navigates toward the parking lot exit, but I can’t ignore the feeling that hostile gazes are tracking our movement. When I glance back through the rear window, both men have disappeared.

She sounds concerned when she notices my continued tension. “Willa? You look pale. Are you all right?”

I force myself to focus on the immediate future rather than imaginary threats. “I’m fine. I guess I’m just processing everything. We need to stop at the pharmacy for prenatal vitamins.”

“At some point soon, you need to call Iskander.”

The reminder makes my stomach clench with fresh anxiety. This conversation will change everything between us, for better or worse. Harper’s right that he deserves to know, and I deserve to see how he reacts to news that makes our careful courtshipsuddenly much more complicated. I nod, already dreading and anticipating that conversation in equal measure. “I’ll call him.”

The drive home passes in somewhat comfortable silence. By the time we reach my apartment, I’ve convinced myself the men in the parking lot weren’t threatening. That was just my mind playing tricks. The alternative—that I’m being actively surveilled while pregnant with the child of a man whose enemies want to hurt him—is too terrifying to consider.

The future feels uncertain and dangerous but suddenly full of possibilities I never imagined. For the first time since Henri’s death, that prospect feels more exciting than terrifying.