Page 94 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

Linda steps forward, placing her hand on my arm. Her eyes shine with warmth and trust I’ve earned through proving my devotion to their daughter and their family. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.”

Robert nods, his hostility from the early days now replaced by grudging acceptance. “The nurses said we can wait here?”

“Yes. Dr. Leven will update you soon. I’ll be joining her when th?—”

A nurse emerges from the OR, interrupting me. “Mr. Rostova? We’re ready for you.”

With a nod to her parents, I follow the nurse. Inside, Claire is on the operating table, a blue surgical drape obscuring everything below her chest. Her face is pale but calm when she reaches for my hand.

“Hi,” she whispers.

I interlace our fingers, positioning myself by her head. The anesthesiologist adjusts something on his monitor while Dr. Leven makes the first incision.

“Baby A is coming,” Dr. Leven announces minutes later.

A sharp cry pierces the air. My grip on Claire’s hand tightens as our first daughter emerges, red-faced and angry. The process repeats for Babies B, C, and D before a nurse gestures me over.

After kissing Claire’s cheek, I move to stand by the incubators, examining our four tiny miracles. The steady beep of monitors and hum of medical equipment fills the air while I take in every detail of our children.

We’ve already picked the names, but we anticipated Claire wouldn’t be in position to assign which one to which baby, so she’s ceded that to me. Deciding our blonde-haired daughter will be Natalia, I say, “Natalia’s doing well.” Claire, who lies exhausted but radiant on the exam table, beams. “Three pounds, two ounces. The nurses say her lungs are strong for her size. She has blonde hair and blue eyes.”

I move to the next incubator. “Simone is the smallest at two pounds, fourteen ounces. She has curly brown hair and blue eyes. Oh, and look at how she’s gripping that tube. She’s a fighter.”

Claire smiles weakly. “Just like her papa.”

I chuckle softly. My gaze shifts to our sons, the pair of identical twins. “Nikolai and Andrew have dark hair and brown eyes. Kolya is three pounds even.”

“And Andrew?” Claire asks, her voice tinged with concern.

“The biggest of the bunch at three pounds, four ounces.” I place my hand on the incubator, marveling at his tiny fingers and toes. “The neonatologist says his oxygen levels are excellent.” I impart that after overhearing the conversation between him and the nurses.

A nurse approaches, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. “We need to take them to the NICU now, Mr. Rostova.”

I nod, reluctantly stepping back. Dr. Fields, the neonatologist, and his colleagues begin disconnecting monitors and preparing the incubators for transport.

“Wait,” Claire calls out, her voice cracking. “Can I... Can we hold them? Just for a moment?”

Dr. Leven looks up from finishing the surgery, her face sympathetic but firm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rostova, but it’s crucial we get them to the NICU immediately. Their immune systems are very fragile right now.”

Claire’s eyes fill with tears. I move to her side, taking her hand in mine. “Soon,lyubov moya. We’ll be able to hold them soon.”

Dr. Fields pauses by the bed, and he speaks in a soothing tone. “They’re all doing remarkably well for thirty-week preemies. Barring any complications, you should be able to take them home in four to eight weeks.”

I watch as our children are wheeled away, myriad emotions swirling within me, including pride, fear, love, and a fierce protectiveness I’ve never experienced before.

“Four to eight weeks,” says Claire with a hint of sadness, squeezing my hand. “That’s not so bad, right?”

I bring her hand to my lips, kissing it gently. “We’ve waited this long. A few more weeks won’t kill us.”

She laughs softly, then winces. “Speak for yourself. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

I brush a strand of hair from her forehead. “You were incredible. I’ve never seen anyone so strong.”

She looks up at me with a small smile. “We did it, Valerian. We’re parents.”

The reality of her words hits me. We’re parents. To four tiny, perfect human beings, who will depend on us for everything. The responsibility settles on me, but instead of feeling burdened, I feel...complete.

“Yes,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “We are.”

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