Page 43 of The Mafia's Septuplets

13

Willa

It’s been four days since we learned about the seven babies, which is four days of living behind bulletproof glass and steel doors that lock with electronic codes I don’t know. The days blur together like watercolors bleeding into one another.

I sit in Iskander’s home office, surrounded by mahogany and leather while trying to focus on inventory reports from Maison Laurent. The numbers swim before my vision like schools of fish darting away whenever I try to pin them down. My laptop screen glows with spreadsheets that need attention, but concentration comes only in small bursts that quickly fade.

Outside the expansive windows, Charleston’s skyline stretches toward the harbor, but between me and that familiar view stands a network of security that transforms this estate into a luxurious prison. A man in a dark suit passes by the window for the third time in ten minutes, his route precise and predictable. Another guard circles the perimeter, visible through the trees.

They’re everywhere now, being stationed at every entrance, patrolling every boundary, and watching every approach diligently. The ultrasound and my apartment’s destruction changed everything. Before, their presence was subtle but now, they hover like storm clouds, constant reminders I’m no longer a person living her life but a valuable asset requiring protection.

I close the laptop and lean back in the leather chair. Everything here whispers of wealth and power, from the crystal glasses in the bar to the original artwork hanging on walls. I place a hand on my stomach. The doctor’s words from my appointment keep echoing:Septuplets are extremely rare, Mrs. Reynolds. We’ll need to monitor you weekly for complications.I’m still not sure I fully believe there are seven heartbeats where I expected one, and seven futures where I planned for a singular possibility.

The magnitude makes my chest constrict with something between wonder and terror. How do you prepare for seven babies, and how do you love seven children without dividing yourself into fragments too small to matter?

These past four days have brought other changes I didn’t anticipate. The morning sickness that plagued me for weeks has evolved into something deeper. Food tastes wrong, smells trigger nausea that leaves me retching, and sleep comes in fractured pieces interrupted by dreams I can’t quite remember upon waking. I’m not even eleven weeks along and already having so many symptoms that it quietly freaks me out if I think about it too long.

Footsteps approach the office, and I recognize Iskander’s confident stride before he appears in the doorway. He moves like a man who owns every space he enters, his presence filling the room with energy that makes my pulse speed up. Today, he wears a charcoal suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders.

“How are you feeling?” He crosses the room and settles into the chair across from my desk, his attention focused entirely on me.

“I’m more tired than usual.” I gesture at the abandoned laptop. “I can’t seem to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes.”

He nods like he expected this answer. “I was doing some reading, and pregnancy weariness is amplified with multiples. Your body is working overtime to support seven developing lives.”

Working overtime.As if growing seven human beings is simply a matter of increased productivity rather than a biological miracle. “It’s not just the tiredness though. I have trouble breathing properly sometimes, like there isn’t enough air in the room.”

His expression sharpens with concern. “Have you mentioned this to Dr. Layton?”

I frown at him. “I haven’t seen or talked to her since our appointment, but she said shortness of breath is normal with multiples because they take up so much space, but it’s getting worse instead of better.”

He leans forward, focusing his full attention on my breathing patterns. “We should call her office and schedule an earlier appointment.”

“I’m fine, really.” It’s silly to dismiss the idea, but I don’t want to become an invalid under constant medical supervision.

He studies my face, clearly searching for deception. “You don’t have to minimize your discomfort. If something’s wrong, weaddress it immediately. It’s the only way to proceed and have a healthy pregnancy.”

He speaks gently but firmly. There’s always a note of softness in his voice when he speaks to me versus when he speaks to everyone else. It gives me courage to try to learn more about him. “Can I ask you something?” I roll my chair closer to his.

“Anything.”

“Tell me about Mikhail Balakin. Not the business part, but the personal part. Help me understand why this war matters so much to both of you.”

His jaw tenses at the name, and for a moment, I think he’ll deflect the question. Instead, he settles back in his chair and looks at me while he recounts the past. “Mikhail and I grew up in the same neighborhood in Moscow. Our families ran adjacent territories, sometimes as allies and sometimes as competitors. We were never friends, but we understood each other’s boundaries.”

He pauses and runs a hand through his dark hair. “About eight years ago, there was a dispute over shipping routes through the Black Sea. Both our organizations had interests in the same ports, and neither wanted to share the profits.”

I wait while he gathers the threads of memory, watching emotions flicker across his features.

“The conflict escalated over several months through small provocations and strategic disruptions. They were standard territorial negotiations.” His voice takes on a harder edge. “Then Alexei crossed into our territory with four armed men, planning to hit one of our warehouses. I had to respond.”

My stomach drops as I anticipate where this story leads. “What happened?”

“The confrontation lasted less than ten minutes. Alexei died along with two of his men, while the other two escaped. When Mikhail heard, he was furious.”

I frown in sympathy for everyone involved. Three lives ended because of territorial disputes and youthful recklessness. I understand now why Mikhail’s vendetta burns with such personal fury, and why he wants to destroy Iksander, not just take some of his territory.

“Alexei was barely twenty-five and had been trying to convince Mikhail to give him more responsibility and his own subsection of territory to control since he’d recently gotten married.” Iskander’s expression carries genuine regret. “I had no choice. He would have kept pushing until someone was dead, and it was better him than me.”