Page 68 of The Mafia's Septuplets
21
Willa
Thursday morning sunlight streams through the estate’s windows as I prepare for my fourteen-week prenatal appointment, the anticipation building in my chest like a slow-burning flame. Today we might finally learn the gender if they cooperate and position themselves correctly for the ultrasound. With seven of them crowded into my rapidly expanding belly, full cooperation seems unlikely.
Fourteen weeks with septuplets feels like hosting a small revolution. Every movement creates ripples of discomfort as seven sets of developing limbs compete for space meant for one. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, studying how pregnancy has transformed my face. My cheeks are fuller, my skin carries that elusive glow everyone mentions, and my belly shows the unmistakable curve of impossibility made real.
My uterus is the size of a twenty-two-week singleton pregnancy according to one of my books, but I feel ginormous and much farther along than that. I can already feel some movement,which is strange at this point, but it makes total sense. Realizing there are eighteen weeks ahead of me seems daunting, but I wish I could safely endure the full twenty-six to keep them in until they’re born at term, if it were safe to carry them that long.
Iskander’s voice carries from his office as he conducts another urgent business call, using the same clipped Russian that’s become the soundtrack to our mornings. He’s already had three separate conversations before nine o’clock.
When I find him reviewing contracts with intense focus, he looks up with the expression of someone whose mind remains divided between immediate tasks and long-term obligations. The Wellington partnership documents spread across his desk represent the legitimate future he’s building for us, but they also serve as another barrier between this moment and his attention.
“The appointment is in an hour.” I settle into the chair across from his desk, watching his face for signs he remembers what today could reveal. “Dr. Layton thinks we might be able to determine genders if the babies are positioned well.”
He sets down his pen and gives me what appears to be his full attention, though something in his posture suggests mental calculations about time and competing priorities, and there’s a vague hint of dawning realization that he’s forgotten in his expression. “That would be remarkable.”
The response carries warmth that encourages me to add more. “I was hoping you’d come with me. Three days ago you said you’d try to make it work.”
His expression shifts, and I watch him navigate between genuine desire to be present and the pressure of circumstances that seem to demand his immediate attention. “The Mikhail situationhas escalated since then. Timur discovered some concerning intelligence that requires an urgent response.”
“There’s always urgent intelligence and some vague threat you never fully share. There’s always another crisis that needs your personal intervention.” My voice carries more edge than I intended as frustration breaks through my careful restraint. “When does it end, Iskander? When do we become the priority?”
“You are the priority. Everything I’m doing serves the goal of protecting you and giving our children a safe future.” He gestures at the documents covering his desk. “The Wellington deal moves us significantly closer to complete legitimacy. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I also want a partner who shows up for important moments.” The admission emerges with raw honesty. “I want someone who chooses to be present during the miraculous parts of this pregnancy, not just the medical emergencies.”
“You think I don’t want to be there?” His voice carries defensive hurt that makes me reconsider the harshness of my words.
“I think you want to want to be there, but something always takes precedence.” I lean forward, needing him to understand the difference between intention and action. “I’m asking for more than good intentions. I’m asking for actual commitment to building a life where our relationship matters as much as your other responsibilities.”
The conversation feels familiar and is another iteration of arguments we’ve circled repeatedly without resolution for the past few weeks. His protective instincts and my need for partnership seem fundamentally incompatible, creating tensionthat passionate reconciliation temporarily masks but never truly resolves.
“What are you really asking me, Willa?” He sounds tired, almost defeated, and looks weary.
I want to ease up on him, but my own fears are haunting me, so I push instead. “I’m asking if you can truly leave this world behind. Not just delegate operations to Timur while maintaining oversight but actually walk away from the power and control that have defined your entire adult life.” The words emerge with desperate honesty. “I’m asking if you’ll choose us when other obligations demand your attention.”
His shoulders droop as he exhales harshly. “I’ve already committed to transferring operational control to Timur once the Mikhail situation is resolved. The legitimate businesses provide sustainable income without any risks of indictments or prison time.” His response sounds rehearsed, as if he’s explained these arrangements so frequently they’ve lost emotional resonance.
“Those are structural changes, not personal transformation. Leaving thebratvameans more than reorganizing business operations.” I study his face for signs of understanding what I’m trying to convey. “It means changing fundamental patterns about how you respond to threats and conflicts while trusting other people to handle problems you’ve always solved personally.”
His jaw tightens with familiar defensiveness. “Some problems require personal resolution. Mikhail falls into that category because of our history and the specific threats he’s making against you.”
“Why does it have to be you? Timur is experienced and capable. He understands the situation without carrying emotional baggage that might cloud his judgment.” My challenge strikes at his assumptions about leadership and control. “Maybe personal intervention is exactly what Mikhail wants. Maybe responding emotionally instead of strategically gives him the leverage he’s been seeking.”
“You want me to delegate responsibility for your safety to someone else?” The question emerges with incredulous anger.
“I want you to consider whether your need for personal control serves our family’s interests or just satisfies your ego about proving dominance.” The accusation cuts through his defensive justifications. “I want you to examine whether killing Mikhail personally protects us or just perpetuates cycles of violence that will follow us regardless of other changes you’re making.”
The suggestion that his protective instincts might be counterproductive transforms his expression into something approaching fury. “This isn’t about ego. Mikhail made this personal when he started targeting you and our children. Some insults demand personal response.”
“Do they?” I stand and move to the window overlooking gardens where armed guards maintain their vigilance. “What if walking away from personal vengeance is exactly what demonstrates the strength to build something different?”
“Walking away means accepting Mikhail can threaten my family without consequences. That’s not strength in my world. It’s weakness that invites further attacks.” His voice carries absolute conviction that brooks no argument about tactical necessities.
“Or it means trusting your organization to handle threats without requiring your personal involvement in violence that keeps you tied to a world you claim to want to leave.” We’re going in circles, each of us entrenched in positions that feel irreconcilable. “How can you build a legitimate future while personally executing enemies from your criminal past?”
The logic of my argument seems to penetrate his defensive armor, though his expression remains stubbornly resistant to implications that challenge core beliefs about leadership and responsibility. We stare at each other across an emotional distance that currently seems insurmountable.