Page 33 of The Mafia's Septuplets
10
Iskander
The text from Timur arrives while I’m reviewing shipping manifests in my study, but the words make me abandon everything else immediately:W.R. visited urgent care clinic. Duration 90 minutes. Recommend immediate contact.
Urgent care. Willa was at a medical facility for an hour and a half, which suggests something more serious than a routine checkup. My mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last. My men would have told me if someone hurt her, but it could be stress-related illness or something connected to the danger circling closer every day.
I’m in my car within five minutes, driving through Charleston’s early evening traffic with barely controlled urgency. The need to see her and confirm she’s unharmed overrides every tactical consideration about maintaining careful distance.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside her apartment building, noting the discreet positions where my security teams maintain overwatch. The knowledge that she’s been underprofessional protection should comfort me but instead, it highlights how exposed she remains to threats I can’t entirely control.
Harper answers the door wearing an expression that could freeze molten steel. She looks me up and down like I’m something unpleasant she’s discovered on her shoe, then steps aside with obvious reluctance. “She’s was about to make a call,” she says curtly, leading me through their modest living space toward what I assume is Willa’s bedroom. “Fair warning for you. She’s had a long day, so try not to make it worse for her.”
I don’t say anything in response, not sure how to handle Willa’s BFF. She seems like a ball of anger wrapped in a layer of deadly prickles, so I’d like to minimize our interaction.
Harper knocks on a partially closed door. “Willa? You have a visitor.”
I hear movement from inside the room, then Willa’s voice calling back. “Can you tell them I’ll see them later? I’m trying to make an important phone call.”
She glances at me with something that might be satisfaction. “It’s Iskander, and he seems upset about something.”
The response is immediate silence, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching the door. When it opens all the way, Willa appears wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that makes her look younger and more vulnerable than usual. She’s holding her cell phone in one hand, and her thumb hovers over what appears to be a contact entry.
“Iskander.” Her voice carries surprise mixed with something I can’t quite identify. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.” I step closer, noting the slight pallor in her complexion, and the way she seems to be holding herself carefully. “I know about your visit to the medical clinic this afternoon.”
Harper makes a disgusted sound behind me and says something that sounds suspiciously likestalkerbefore raising her voice. “I’ll leave you two to sort out whatever surveillance state nonsense this is. Willa, I’ll be in my room if you need me to throw him out.”
She disappears down the hallway, leaving Willa and me alone in the doorway of her bedroom. The space beyond is small and intimate, decorated in soft greens and white that reflect her careful, organized nature.
She crosses her arms, though the gesture seems more protective than defiant. “Your people followed me to a doctor’s appointment?”
“My people follow you everywhere. We’ve discussed the security concerns multiple times.” I study her face, searching for signs of injury or illness. “What I want to know is why you needed urgent medical care without telling me?”
“Uh, how about, it’s my body and my choice who I tell about my medical situations?” Color rises in her cheeks, though whether from anger or embarrassment, I can’t determine. “Besides, I was about to call you.”
The phone in her hand suddenly makes sense. I glance at the screen and see my name listed in her contacts, thumb positioned over the call button. The timing suggests she was preparing to reach out when I arrived unannounced.
“Were you?” I soften my tone slightly, recognizing accusations won’t get me the information I need. “About what?”
She hesitates, and in that pause, I see something flicker in her expression. It could be fear, or maybe it’s uncertainty. When she finally speaks, her voice cracks. “I’m pregnant.”
The words send me staggering back a step as though she actually pushed me, though I strive to keep my expression neutral from years of practice.Pregnant. Willa is carrying my child, which changes everything about our situation.
“How long have you known?” The question emerges harsher than intended, driven by frustration that she didn’t trust me with information this significant.
“About three hours.” She lifts her chin slightly, and I see defiance spark in her green eyes. “I found out this afternoon at the clinic. Harper insisted I get checked out because I’ve been feeling sick for weeks.”
Three hours. She’s known about the pregnancy for three hours, which means the urgent care visit was for confirmation rather than treatment. Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a possessiveness so fierce it borders on violence. “You were going to call me?” I need confirmation that she intended to share this news rather than hide it.
Instead of answering verbally, she presses the call button on her phone. Seconds later, my cell phone buzzes with an incoming call from her number. She cancels the call and looks at me with an expression that’s equal parts smug and irritated.
“I was literally about to ask if we could meet tonight to talk.” Her voice carries an edge she uses when she thinks I’m beingunreasonable. “Since I just found out today that I’m carrying your child and all.”
The confirmation sends something primitive and protective surging through my bloodstream. My child. The phrase reshapes every decision about how to handle the mounting threats from Mikhail Balakin. “I’m sorry.” The apology comes automatically, though it feels inadequate for the assumptions I made. “I saw the medical facility report and assumed the worst.”
“What kind of worst?”