Page 87 of The Mafia's Septuplets

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Willa

The contractions hit like waves crashing against Charleston’s seawall, each one stronger than the last as we speed through the city toward the medical center. I grip Iskander’s hand while he coordinates with Dr. Layton through his earpiece, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from every line of his body.

“Seven minutes apart and getting stronger.” I breathe through another surge of pain that makes me understand why women have screamed through childbirth for millennia. “This is really happening.”

“Dr. Layton’s team is scrubbing in now.” Iskander squeezes my fingers while studying my face for signs of distress. “The OR is prepared for the C-section, and the NICU has seven incubators ready. All staff have either arrived or areen route, since it takes a small army to deliver seven babies.”

The hospital’s birthing center entrance welcomes us with immediate action. Nurses wheel me toward the elevatorwhile medical staff attach monitors and start IV lines, their movements swift despite the unprecedented nature for most of the professionals of delivering septuplets. We’re the first set to arrive at this hospital.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Layton appears beside my gurney as we enter the specialized delivery suite, her expression calm but focused. “Any unusual pain or pressure?”

“Everything feels intense.” I try to find a comfortable position while machines track heartbeats and contractions. “Is this normal for multiples?”

“Your body is working overtime, but all seven babies are showing strong vital signs.” She reviews readings on multiple monitors while nurses prepare surgical equipment. “We’re going to get them out safely.”

The delivery room hums with coordinated activity as specialists position equipment and confirm protocols. Seven NICU teams wait in adjoining spaces, each prepared to stabilize a newborn who will arrive weeks before full-term development. The scope of medical intervention required makes my head spin with grateful amazement. There’s no way they all would have survived if I’d been alive even a hundred years earlier.

“I need to step out while they prep you for surgery.” Iskander leans down to kiss my forehead, his lips warm against skin that feels cold with anxiety. “I’ll be right outside, and I’ll see you the moment they’re finished with prepping.”

“Don’t leave me.” The plea emerges before I can stop it, panic overriding the rational understanding that he can’t remain during surgical procedures. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong.” His voice carries absolute conviction that soothes fears I can’t quite articulate. “You’re strong, and our babies are fighters. We’re all going to be fine.”

A nurse guides Iskander toward the door while an anesthesiologist prepares the spinal block that will numb me from the waist down. “We’ll have you back in just a few minutes,” Dr. Layton assures him. “This is routine for scheduled C-sections. We’re just moving it up a few days because the babies are impatient. Every protocol remains the same.”

The door closes behind him, and I focus on breathing while the anesthesiologist positions me for the spinal injection. The antiseptic smell mingles with my growing nervousness, but everything feels manageable, and is so far, exactly for what we planned.

Then something shifts, and there’s a warm spreading sensation between my legs, followed by urgent voices that cut through the calmness.

“She’s hemorrhaging.” Dr. Layton’s tone transforms from reassuring to commanding. “Get me two units of O-negative, and prep for emergency conversion to general.”

The room erupts into coordinated chaos. Multiple voices overlap as medical equipment wheels into position, monitors beep with increasing urgency, and hands move over my body that I barely notice in my panic.

“What’s happening?” I try to sit up, but firm hands guide me back down while my vision blurs at the edges. “Is something wrong with the babies?”

“We need to get them out now.” Dr. Layton appears in my line of sight, her face masked but eyes radiating focused intensity. “We’re switching to general anesthesia for speed.”

Before I can protest or ask more questions, a mask descends over my nose and mouth, carrying the sweet chemical taste of gas that promises unconsciousness. The last thing I see is the organized frenzy of medical professionals fighting to save lives that hang in a balance more precarious than anyone anticipated.

“Count backwards from ten,” someone says, though the voice sounds distant and distorted through gathering fog.

“Ten.” The number dissolves on my tongue. “Nine...”

Darkness swallows me completely before I reach eight, pulling me into surgical oblivion where time becomes meaningless and consciousness floats between dreams and medical intervention. Somewhere in that space beyond awareness, I drift through fragments of memory, remembering Iskander’s hands against my belly, the sound of seven heartbeats on ultrasound monitors, and promises whispered in quiet moments about the future we’re building together.

When awareness returns,it arrives in fragments, first with the taste of antiseptic in my mouth, then the sound of machines monitoring vital signs, and finally, a dull ache throughout my midsection that signals major surgery. I try to open my eyes, but they feel weighted with exhaustion that goes beyond normal fatigue.

“She’s waking up.” A voice I don’t recognize speaks from somewhere near my feet. “Vitals are stable, and her blood pressure is normalizing.”

I force my eyes open to find myself in a recovery room surrounded by medical equipment and soft lighting designed to aid healing. The absence of pregnancy weight feels strange and empty, though surgical pain reminds me something significant has happened to my body. “The babies.” My voice emerges as barely a whisper through dry lips. “Are they okay?”

“All seven are alive and fighting.” Dr. Layton appears beside my bed with a tired but satisfied expression. “They’re small, as expected for thirty-one weeks, but their lungs are developing well and their hearts are strong.”

Relief floods through me with intensity that brings tears to my eyes. “Can I see them?” I try to sit up, but weakness and surgical restrictions keep me horizontal. “Can I see Iskander?”

“He’s been waiting for hours, first pacing outside the OR, and then he accompanied your babies to the NICU. Technically, he’s not allowed in the recovery room, but I’ll send for him in a minute.” She winks before checking readings on my monitors. “The babies are being stabilized in NICU, but you’ll be able to visit them once you’re stronger.”