Page 57 of The Mafia's Septuplets
17
Willa
Harper arrives at the estate carrying a leather portfolio and wearing her favorite vintage dress, the one with tiny roses that makes her look like she stepped out of a 1940s photograph. The security guards recognize her now, waving her through the gates without the lengthy verification process that marked her first few visits.
“I brought presents,” she announces, settling into the breakfast nook where Alina has arranged a spread of protein-rich foods that make my mouth water despite the lingering nausea. “Pictures of Eve’s work and updates from the shop that I thought you’d want to see.”
She opens the portfolio to reveal photographs taken with careful attention to detail. Eve’s stitching appears neat and professional, her seam work maintaining the exacting standards Henri drilled into me over years of patient instruction. The jacket sleeves she altered show proper proportions, and the pressing looks crisp without the telltale shine that marks amateur work.
“She’s actually quite skilled,” I say, studying a close-up of buttonhole stitching that meets Henri’s requirements for precision. “Her technique is solid, even if her management instincts need development.”
“She seems eager to learn and genuinely worried about disappointing you.” Harper arranges the photos in chronological order, showing the progression of various projects throughout the week. “The clients have been complimenting the work, which is probably the best endorsement you could ask for.”
Relief floods through me as I examine each image. The remote management of Maison Laurent has been a constant source of anxiety, so seeing tangible proof of quality craftsmanship eases some of the pressure that’s been building.
“What about customer interactions? Is she handling the consultation process appropriately?”
“She’s learning to read their preferences and manage expectations, though she still defers to you for anything complex.” Harper pulls out her phone to show me videos of Eve explaining alteration options to a longtime client. “She’s respectful and professional but lacks the intuitive understanding of what people really want versus what they think they want.”
I watch Eve guide Mrs. Patterson through fabric choices for her husband’s summer suit, noting how she asks the right questions while missing subtle cues about budget concerns and timeline preferences. The technical skills are clearly there, but the art of client management requires experience that can’t be taught through instruction alone.
“She’ll develop that instinct with time and practice. Henri didn’t learn to read people overnight either.” I close the portfolio,feeling grateful for Harper’s thoroughness in documenting everything. “Thank you for doing this. Seeing her work makes me feel less anxious about being away from the shop.”
“Speaking of being away...” Harper serves herself a generous portion of the grilled chicken Alina prepared, along with quinoa salad and roasted vegetables. “How are you handling life in the fortress? You look better than the last time I saw you. Definitely less stressed.”
The observation surprises me because I’ve been feeling increasingly complicated about my situation here. “Some days are better than others. Iskander has been more open about sharing information, which helps me feel less trapped, but there are still moments when the security restrictions feel overwhelming.”
“That’s understandable. Being pregnant under normal circumstances is challenging enough without adding armed guards and bulletproof glass to the equation.” She cuts her chicken into precise pieces, a habit we both developed during our teenage years when making food last longer was often a necessity. “You seem...different somehow. More settled, maybe?”
The word choice makes me consider how I’ve been feeling lately, particularly since the conversation where Iskander outlined his plans for leaving the criminal aspects of his life behind. “I think I’m starting to believe this situation might have a positive resolution.”
“What kind of resolution?”
I set down my fork and study Harper’s face, trying to gauge how she’ll react to what I’m about to share. “Iskander wants to leavethe organization. Not immediately but eventually. He wants to build something legitimate for us and the babies.”
Her expression shifts through several stages of surprise, concern, and what might be skepticism. “He’s going to leave thebratva? Is that even possible?”
“He says it is, with careful planning and the right transition structure. He wants to hand operational control to his lieutenant and focus on legitimate businesses that won’t endanger our family.” The words feel hopeful as I speak them, though I notice Harper’s dubious expression. “He’s committed to the idea. This isn’t just wishful thinking.”
“Do you believe him?” The question carries more than simple curiosity.
Harper knows my history with men who make promises they don’t keep, with situations that seem too good to be true, they usually are. “I do believe him. I’ve seen how he looks at me when we talk about the babies, how his whole demeanor changes when he thinks about being a father to seven children.”
“That’s not the same thing as actually walking away from millions of dollars in illegal revenue and a position of power that probably defines his entire identity.” Harper’s voice carries gentle concern rather than harsh judgment. “People can want to change without being able to actually do it.”
“He’s already started the process. He’s been meeting with Timur about transition plans and discussing timelines for separating legitimate businesses from criminal operations.” I lean forward, wanting her to understand why I’m optimistic about our future. “This isn’t just talk, Harper. He’s taking concrete steps.”
She nods slowly, but I catch the reservation in her expression. “What happens if he can’t follow through? What if the organization won’t let him go, or if other obligations take priority over his plans with you?”
The questions hit uncomfortably close to fears I’ve been trying to suppress. “I’ll have to make decisions about what’s best for me and the babies. I don’t think it will come to that.”
“Willa...” She reaches across the table to cover my hand with hers. “I want this to work out for you. I want him to be the man you think he is, and your children to grow up safe and loved. I also worry about putting all your faith in promises that might be impossible to keep.”
Her concern is rooted in genuine care, but it still makes my chest tighten with defensive anger. “You think I’m being naïve.”
“I think you’re being hopeful, which isn’t the same thing. Hope is important, especially when you’re facing something as challenging as raising seven children.” She squeezes my hand gently. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt if the reality doesn’t match the promises.”
The conversation hovers on the edge of an argument I don’t want to have with my closest friend. Her skepticism about Iskander’s ability to change reflects practical concerns I can’t entirely dismiss, even though I want to defend the man I love against doubts that mirror my own suppressed fears.