Page 38 of The Mafia's Septuplets

“Your hormone levels from the urgent care visit were quite elevated. It could indicate multiples, though there are other explanations. Some women just produce a lot of hCG.” She makes notes in my chart. “We’ll know more after the ultrasound.”

Multiples. The word sends a spike of anxiety through my nervous system. Twins would double everything, from expenses to sleepless nights, and the complexity of keeping children safe in Iskander’s dangerous world.

“I’d like to do an ultrasound today,” Dr. Layton says. “Normally, you’d have one at eight weeks and the next at twelve weeks, but given the late start to care, I want to confirm dating and check for any obvious concerns.”

The ultrasound room is dimly lit and dominated by sophisticated equipment that looks more like space technology than medical devices. I lie back on this new examination table while Iskander settles into a chair beside me, taking my hand with gentle pressure that anchors me in the moment.

“This might be cold,” Dr. Layton says as she applies gel to my still-flat abdomen.

The sensation is shocking against my skin, but I focus on Iskander’s warm fingers intertwined with mine. My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if the ultrasound machine will pick it up instead of the baby’s.

Dr. Layton positions the probe, and the monitor comes alive with grainy black and white images that look like abstract art until she begins pointing out recognizable shapes. “There’s the gestational sac,” she murmurs, adjusting controls to enhance the image clarity. “I can see... Wait…”

Her voice trails off as she moves the probe slightly, studying the screen with increased intensity. The silence stretches uncomfortably while she examines something I can’t decipher, her expression shifting from routine professional interest to surprise.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“Not wrong. Just...unexpected.” She continues her examination, marking measurements and capturing images. “I’m seeing multiple gestational sacs.”

Multiple. The word hangs in the air while my brain struggles to catch up. Twins, maybe, which would explain the intensity of my symptoms and the rapid changes in my body.

“Twins?” Iskander’s voice carries the same uncertainty I’m feeling.

Twins would change a lot. That’s twice as much to worry about.

“More than twins.” Dr. Layton’s tone becomes low and slower. “I’m counting seven distinct sacs, each with visible fetal poles and cardiac activity.”

Seven. The number makes me whimper aloud while rendering me temporarily incapable of speech or rational thought. Seven babies.Seventiny humans growing inside my body simultaneously, each one requiring nutrients, space, and care I’m not sure I can provide.

The room spins slightly, and I have to close my eyes to regain equilibrium. Seven babies. Seven cribs, seven car seats, and seven college educations. That means seven people who will depend on Iskander and me for everything they need to survive and thrive.

I look at Iskander and see my own shock reflected in his face, though his expression has gone completely still as though he’s processing information too significant for immediate reaction.

“Septuplets,” Dr. Layton continues, labeling each sac on the screen with letters A through G. “All appear healthy at this stage. Their heart rates are strong, and development looks appropriate for gestational age. They’re smaller than we’d expect with singletons at this stage, but that’s to be expected, and they’re within nominal ranges for this many.”

The clinical details wash over me like white noise while I stare at the monitor, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what we’re facing. The screen shows seven tiny forms, each one amiracle and a responsibility that makes my chest ache with overwhelming emotion.

“What does this mean?” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, almost too small for the enormity of what we’ve just discovered.

“It means you have a high-risk pregnancy that requires intensive monitoring and careful management.” Her tone remains professionally compassionate. “Septuplet pregnancies are extremely rare and require specialized care throughout.”

She explains the risks in detail that makes my head spin. Premature labor, gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, and growth restrictions for individual babies. There will be weekly appointments, bed rest possibly starting in the second trimester, and a mandatory delivery by thirty-two weeks maximum.

“Seven babies born at thirty-two weeks will need extensive NICU care,” she continues gently. “There will be months in the hospital, potential developmental delays, and significant medical expenses even with excellent insurance.”

I share a look with Iksander, surprised to see he looks openly as shocked and overwhelmed as I feel. “I… How am I supposed to do this?”

The doctor gives me a kind look. “I should mention selective reduction is an option,” Dr. Layton says gently. “Reducing the number of fetuses to two or even three can significantly improve outcomes for the remaining babies.”

“No.” The word emerges from both Iskander and me simultaneously, spoken with identical conviction. The synchronized response surprises me, but when I meet Iskander’s gaze, I see my own fierce protectiveness reflected there. Theseseven children are already ours, already loved, and already irreplaceable parts of our future.

She nods without revealing her personal opinion of our choice. “I understand. Many couples feel that way. It just means we’ll need to be even more vigilant about monitoring and managing potential complications.”

The rest of the appointment passes in a blur of medical terminology and scheduling for weekly ultrasounds, nutrition counseling, and high-risk obstetric specialists who will join my care team. My simple pregnancy has become a complex medical situation requiring an army of professionals to manage successfully.

I’m surprised Dr. Layton even gives us some brochures from local nanny agencies, explaining, “Wait times can be long with these highly reputable agencies, so it’s best to have at least three helpers lined up and waiting for when they eventually come home, probably about six to eight weeks after birth.”

My mind immediately rebels against the idea of using nannies, but reality intrudes. It’s impossible for the two of us—three if I count Harper, who I’m sure will help—to manage seven babies at the same time.