Page 88 of The Mafia's Septuplets
A few minutes later, the door opens to admit Iskander, whose face shows exhaustion and relief in equal measure. He moves to my bedside with careful steps, as if sudden movements might shatter the fragile miracle of our survival. “You did it.” He takes my hand gently, mindful of IV lines and surgical trauma. “You brought all seven of them into this world safely.”
“How long was I unconscious?” The timeline feels fractured, with gaps I can’t account for between entering surgery and waking up in recovery.
“Six hours.” His voice is heavy from the burden of every minute spent wondering about outcomes. “There were complications during delivery, and you lost more blood than expected. For a while, the doctors weren’t sure...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I understand what he’s not saying. The delivery nearly cost more than we were prepared to sacrifice, pushing medical intervention to its limits while seven babies struggled for independent life, and I nearly lost mine. “We’re all okay now.” I squeeze his fingers with what strength I possess. “We made it through.”
“Yes, and we’ll keep making it.” He leans down to press a gentle kiss against my lips, and I taste salty tears that could belong to either of us. “All nine of us.”
The next several hours pass in a haze of medical checks and gradual recovery as my body processes the trauma of major surgery. Nurses monitor vital signs while Dr. Layton provides updates about the babies’ progress in NICU, each report bringing cautiously optimistic news about their adaptation to life outside the womb.
She reviews their charts during an afternoon visit. “They’re all breathing on their own so far, which is excellent for thirty-one weeks, and even more so for septuplets. Baby A and Baby C are the strongest, not needing any oxygen supplementation, while Baby E needs a bit more respiratory support with a BiPAP. The other four are on oxygen via nasal cannulas just for added support until their lungs develop a bit more. All of them are responding well to feeding tubes and initial care.”
“When can I see them?” The question has dominated my thoughts since waking up, maternal instincts demanding physical confirmation that my children are safe and thriving.
“This evening, if your recovery continues progressing.” She makes notes on my chart while speaking. “We’ll take you down in a wheelchair for your first visit.”
By early evening, I feel strong enough to attempt the journey to NICU, though standing requires assistance and movement brings reminders of surgical healing. A nurse helps me into a wheelchair before Iskander takes over pushing it to convey me to the NICU unit. “Are you ready for this?” he asks as we approach the elevator that will carry us to our children.
“I’ve been ready since the moment I learned they existed.” The truth encompasses months of anticipation and preparation, but nothing could have truly prepared me for the reality of seeing seven tiny humans who share our DNA.
We have to scrub in, and Iskander supports me while I stand to use the sink. Then we’re on the move again to the room our babies are sharing. The NICU overwhelms my senses with its careful orchestration of medical technology and human compassion. Incubators line the walls like transparent cocoons, each one supporting a baby who arrived before their natural time. Machines hum with life-sustaining rhythms while nurses move between stations.
“Ours are in the private section,” he says as he pushes. “The nurses arranged them so you can see all seven from a central position.” A second later, he hits the button to automatically open the wide door and wheels me in.
The sight of our children makes me tremble with wonder and terror in equal measure. There are seven perfect babies, impossibly small but unmistakably alive, with each one fighting for growth and strength. “They’re beautiful.” The words feel inadequate for the miracle before us. “They’re so tiny but so perfect.”
Iskander stands beside my wheelchair with his hand resting on my shoulder, and I feel his amazement matching my own as we study the faces of our children. Each baby has distinct features despite their early arrival with, unique personalities already emerging through different sleeping positions and movements.
“This one’s definitely the fighter.” The nurse points to Baby A, whose arms move constantly despite medical equipment. “She’s been trying to pull out her feeding tube since arrival.”
I recall she and Baby C, another girl, are the ones breathing on their own, and there’s nothing on her face. “That’s going to be trouble later.” I laugh through tears while imagining the personality that goes with such determination. “What should we call them?”
We spend the next hour assigning names to faces, matching our carefully chosen list with the tiny individuals who will carry those names through life. Alexei for Baby F, honoring Mikhail’s brother while reclaiming the name from violence. Henrietta—Etta—for Baby G, after Henri who gave me the first taste of family stability.
“Katarina for Baby A,” Iskander suggests while studying the most active of our daughters. “She looks like someone who will command attention.”
“Aidan for Baby B.” I point to our quietest son, whose peaceful expression suggests a contemplative nature. “And Anastasia for Baby C?”
He nods. “Nikolai for Baby E.” He’s continuing the pattern of Russian names that honor his heritage, so his next choice startles me. “Chloe for Baby D.”
“Chloe? You were picking Russian names.”
He shrugs. “Our babies aren’t purely Russian, and I happen to know it’s your middle name.”
I smile, blinking back tears, and fully satisfied with the seven names we’ve chosen for our children. “Those are perfect.”
“They’re going to be here for several weeks.” A nurse who entered a couple of minutes ago explains NICU protocols while we memorize details of tiny faces. “Every day, they’ll get stronger and more ready for home.”
Harper arrives during our visit, her expression soft with wonder as she encounters the babies she’s helped anticipate through months of pregnancy. She moves quietly between incubators, studying each child with focused attention while introducing herself to each one as Aunt Harper, their godmother.
“They look like both of you.” She settles beside my wheelchair while speaking softly to avoid disturbing sleeping babies. “Especially Etta. She has your bone structure but Iskander’s determined expression. It makes her look constipated,” she pseudo-whispers while sending him a teasing look.
He just smiles. Apparently, nothing can shake his good mood right now.
Timur appears in the doorway about twenty minutes later with obvious discomfort at the emotional intimacy of this moment, but loyalty to Iskander brings him forward despite personal reservations about family sentimentality. He studies our children with tactical assessment that makes me smile, as if calculating their potential for future achievement.
“Seven soldiers for your personal army.” His observation carries dry humor that acknowledges both the blessing and burden of such a large family. “Your enemies would be wise to surrender now.”
“No more enemies.” Iskander’s voice carries absolute conviction. “These children will grow up never knowing about that.”
“Da, as it should be.” Timur’s expression softens with genuine emotion when he’s introduced to Alexei. He seems surprised by the name but nods, quickly grasping the reason for it. “That is appropriate.”
As visiting hours end for our friends, and we prepare to return to my hospital room so I can continue resting and pump breast milk to supplement what the babies receive from donors, I take one last look at the seven perfect beings who transformed us from a couple to a family overnight. The amazing miracle fills me with warmth and emotions so large, I’m not sure I can contain them.
“You did amazing.” Iskander wheels me toward the elevator while speaking softly. “You brought them all into this world safely, and you’re going to be the best mother they could ask for.”
“It helps that they already have the best father.” I slump against the wheelchair while processing the magnitude of what we’ve accomplished, overcome with exhaustion again.
The hospital corridor stretches ahead like a pathway toward our new life, lined with prospects we’re only beginning to imagine. Outside the windows, Charleston’s evening lights twinkle like stars, but our real constellation waits in temperature-controlled incubators, where seven tiny hearts beat with the rhythm of infinite possibility.