Page 70 of The Mafia's Septuplets
22
Iskander
Irealize I’m running late and hurry to finish the conversation with one of Wellington’s representatives, who called me before I could call Timur. I run outside just in time to see the SUV disappear down the estate’s winding drive. I’m seven minutes late, so I can’t blame her for leaving without me, but something cold settles in my stomach. Willa’s words replay in my mind:If you care more about Mikhail than about seeing our children, I’ll go alone.
The sound of the engine fades, leaving only silence and another promise broken. I meant to go with her. I wanted to see our children’s faces on that ultrasound screen, maybe learn their genders, and share that moment of wonder that belongs to us alone. Instead, I let the agent’s urgent call pull me back into the darkness I’m supposedly leaving behind.
I walk back into my office where the Wellington files are still spread across my desk like blueprints for a future I’m apparently too stubborn to embrace. Each page represents legitimacy,safety, and the clean life Willa deserves. Yet here I stand, choosing old patterns over new promises.
My phone buzzes. Timur’s name appears on the screen, and I answer with more aggression than he deserves. “This better be life or death.”
“It might be.” His voice carries gravity that refocuses my attention. “We need to talk in person. Now.”
“I just missed my pregnant girlfriend’s ultrasound appointment because I got sidetracked by something ‘important,” so this conversation better be worth what it cost me.” It’s not his fault or even Mr. King’s, who called me unexpectedly. It’s mine for not being able to properly delegate.
“It is. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at the phone while guilt gnaws at my ribs. I should have gone with Willa. The Wellington discussion would have waited another two hours since we’ve already signed the contracts. It’s just organizing details now and waiting for the first payment from his group. Instead, I chose the familiar pull of crisis management over the unfamiliar territory of simply being present for the woman I love.
The admission stops me cold. Love. When did that happen? When did protecting Willa transform into something deeper than possession or responsibility? Somewhere between watching her stand up to entitled clients, seeing her courage in the face of Henri’s death, and learning about our seven babies, she’s become the only future I want.
Yet I keep treating her like a problem to solve instead of a partner to trust. Every protective instinct pulls me toward control while she begs for partnership. Every threat against hertriggers responses that push us farther apart while I tell myself I’m keeping her safe.
Heavy footsteps in the hallway announce Timur’s arrival. He appears in my doorway with drooped shoulders, suggesting he’s carrying bad news. When Timur looks this serious, people tend to die.
“Tell me.” I gesture toward the chair Willa vacated twenty-four minutes ago.
He settles into the seat and places a tablet on my desk between us. “The whispers have become conversations. Since learning you’re trying to get out, some of our mid-level operators are questioning your commitment to the organization.”
I shrug. “Let them question. In six months, it won’t matter what they think.”
“It matters now.” He slides a tablet screen across the desk, revealing surveillance photos of men I recognize from our Atlanta operations. “Viktor Kolz has been meeting with former Balakin lieutenants on three separate occasions in the past week.”
Viktor has run our southern routes for five years. His loyalty never seemed questionable until this moment. “What kind of meetings?”
“The kind where money changes hands and allegiances shift.” His voice carries disgust. “He thinks you’ve gone soft and domestic troubles have made you weak and distracted. I’ve had a…discussion with him to clarify his thinking, but his actions are troubling. Others might also think you’re too distracted to properly lead.”
“Am I?” The question emerges before I can stop it.
He hesitates before answering. “You missed a major operational briefing last Tuesday because Willa had morning sickness. You’ve postponed three separate strategy sessions to meet with Wellington’s people, and yesterday, you turned down a meeting with the Miami contacts because who the fuck knows why? Just that it was because of her.” He steadily meets my gaze. “Your priorities have shifted.”
I lean forward, elbows on the desk. Each example strikes true because they’re all accurate. I have been choosing domestic concerns over business obligations with trying to build a legitimate future for Willa and the babies, while simultaneously neglecting her and my other obligations to thebratva.
The pattern that felt like growth now sounds like weakness when filtered through Timur’s tactical assessment, but how do I explain that watching her face light up when she talks about the babies matters more than any meeting? How do I justify that her happiness has become more important than territorial disputes or profit margins? I’m not inclined to do so, and anyone who has a problem with it can challenge me or fuck off. “Are you saying I should abandon the mother of my children to prove organizational loyalty?”
“I’m saying your enemies are interpreting your new priorities as vulnerabilities they can exploit.” He swipes to another set of photos showing Mikhail Balakin in conversation with men I don’t recognize. “Mikhail has been recruiting from our defectors, especially the newer recruits from Moscow who haven’t had time to become truly loyal. He’s building a coalition based on the premise that you’re no longer the leader who built this empire.”
The strategic implications crystallize with horrible clarity. If our own people doubt my commitment, they become potential allies for Mikhail’s vendetta. Internal dissent combined with external pressure could collapse everything I’ve built, leaving Willa and our children exposed to threats I can no longer control.
The image of her facing Mikhail’s men without my protection chills me. I have seven babies depending on me for their very existence, and I’m failing them before they’re even born. “Is Viktor our mole?”
“Nyet. He’s too far outside the inner circle. He’s just one concern I bring to your attention.”
I scrub a hand down my face, trying to wipe away sudden exhaustion with all of the theatrics involved with the situation. I want a clear, clean answer. “What do you recommend?”
“It’s time to end this war decisively and show everyone you’re still the man who doesn’t tolerate threats against what’s his.” Timur’s voice drops to something approaching command. “Kill Mikhail publicly and brutally. Remind everyone why they used to fear you, and then when you leave, it will be on your terms, not because you’ve been betrayed.”
The suggestion should feel natural and automatic. For years, I’ve handled threats with overwhelming force that leaves no room for future challenges when required, though I’ve shown more restraint than my father did about deciding when those measures were required. Now, something in me resists the familiar pattern of violence as solution. “What if Willa’s right? What if personal revenge keeps me tied to this world and blocks my plan to walk away?”