Page 77 of The Mafia's Septuplets
25
Willa
The basement smells like damp concrete and rust, with a musty coldness that seeps through my clothes and settles in my bones. My wrists burn where the zip ties cut into my skin, and I force myself to stop pulling against them to avoid making the damage worse. The dim overhead bulb casts harsh shadows across concrete walls that seem to press closer with each passing hour.
I shift on the metal folding chair they’ve given me, trying to find a position that doesn’t send sharp pains through my lower back. At fourteen weeks pregnant with seven babies, every surface feels uncomfortable, but this basement feels designed to maximize misery. The concrete floor beneath my feet radiates cold that makes my legs ache, and the single window near the ceiling shows only a narrow strip of fading daylight.
My stomach cramps with anxiety for the seven lives depending on me to stay calm and safe. Dr. Layton’s warnings about elevated blood pressure echo in my mind as tension buildsbehind my temples. The babies need me to control my stress but controlling stress while being held hostage by armed men seems impossible.
The envelope with gender results remains crumpled in my bound hands, the edges soft from my nervous fidgeting. I might never know the results or who they might have become if I make the wrong choices in the hours ahead. The paper feels precious and fragile, like hope I’m trying to protect until I can share it with Iskander.
Heavy footsteps descend the wooden stairs, each creak announcing someone’s approach with deliberate slowness. I straighten in the chair, trying to project strength I don’t entirely feel while preparing for whatever interrogation or intimidation comes next.
The man who enters must be Mikhail Balakin. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair cut short and piercing blue eyes that study me with calculating interest. His expensive suit looks out of place in this dingy basement, but his presence fills the space with quiet menace that makes my skin crawl.
“Ms. Reynolds.” His voice carries a slight Russian accent wrapped around perfectly polite English. “I apologize for the accommodations. We weren’t expecting such distinguished company.”
I meet his gaze directly, refusing to look away despite every instinct screaming at me to show submission. “What do you want?”
“Straight to business. I appreciate directness in women.” He settles into another folding chair positioned just out of my reach, putting him close enough to feel threatening but far enough toavoid any desperate attempts I might make to fight back. “I want to have a conversation with your lover about old debts and family honor.”
“Kidnapping pregnant women isn’t honorable.”
“Neither is killing young men who were following orders from their older brothers.” His expression hardens with years of accumulated pain. “Yet here we are, discussing the consequences of choices made long ago.”
The mention of his brother brings Iskander’s version of events flooding back. Alexei Balakin, twenty-two years old, leading four men into territory where they didn’t belong and forcing a confrontation that ended in blood. I study Mikhail’s face for signs of the grief that’s driven him to this extreme. “Your brother chose to attack Iskander. What did you expect him to do, let himself be killed?”
“I expected him to show mercy to a boy who was trying to prove himself worthy of the family name.” Mikhail’s voice carries bitter regret. “Alexei was reckless and proud, but he didn’t deserve to die for following my orders.”
“And I don’t deserve to die for Iskander’s choices.” I lean forward as much as my restraints allow. “Whatever debt you think he owes you, taking it out on innocent people isn’t justice. It’s just revenge.”
“Sometimes revenge is the only justice available.” He stands and walks closer, studying my face with unsettling intensity. “Tell me, do you know how I was able to find you so easily? How I learned your schedule, your habits, and your vulnerabilities?”
The question makes my stomach drop with sudden dread. I’ve already figured out someone close to us with access to protected information betrayed our security. “I have no idea.”
“Your housekeeper has been very helpful.” His smile carries cruel satisfaction. “Alina has been providing detailed reports about your daily routine for weeks. Every appointment, every outing, and every moment when you’d be most vulnerable.”
The words make me gasp as each one shatters assumptions about safety and trust I’d built over months of living in Iskander’s protected world. Alina, who helped coordinate the nursery renovations and brought me water during morning sickness, who offered gentle support during my fights with Iskander and seemed genuinely concerned about my wellbeing, betrayed us.
“That’s impossible.” My voice emerges weaker than I intended. “She’s been nothing but kind to me.”
“The most effective spies often are.” He returns to his chair with evident pleasure at my distress. “She’s been in my employ since before she started working for Iskander. She’s always patient, thorough, and completely committed to her mission.”
The betrayal cuts deeper than the physical discomfort of restraints and hard surfaces. I trusted Alina with intimate details about my pregnancy, my fears, and my relationship struggles. She listened to my concerns with apparent sympathy while gathering intelligence to use against us. It hits me that her helpful advice about making ultimatums and choosing the babies over Iskander were deliberate efforts to cause conflict.
I inhale sharply and exhale slowly, quelling the urge to cry, since I won’t show this scumbag my tears. “Why tell me this?”
His smile is warm, but his eyes are cold. “I want you to understand how completely you’ve been exposed. Every secret you thought was safe, and every moment you believed you were protected was an illusion.” He leans forward with predatory satisfaction. “Your lover built walls around you, but I had someone inside those walls the entire time.”
The psychological torture is working exactly as he intended. I feel stripped of every assumption about security and safety, wondering what other betrayals might be waiting to surface. If Alina could deceive us so completely, who else might be working against us from within?
“Iskander will come for me.” I force strength into my voice despite the uncertainty eating at my confidence. “He’ll find this place and bring enough men to tear it down around you.”
“Will he?” Mikhail’s tone carries mocking doubt. “Or will he calculate the odds and decide one woman isn’t worth the risk to his entire organization?”
“You don’t know him at all if you think he’d abandon me.”
“I know him better than you might imagine. We grew up in the same world, learning the same lessons about power and survival.” His expression grows contemplative. “Iskander Taranov built his empire by making ruthless calculations about acceptable losses. What makes you think you’re more valuable than everything else he’s worked to protect?”