Page 10 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Tonight, all I want to do is to enjoy my time with this lovely woman.

It won’t last. Nothing real ever does in my world, but for these few minutes on a crowded dance floor, perhaps reality can be suspended. Tomorrow brings violence, strategy, and the endless game of power, but tonight, there is only music, movement, and green eyes that see a man rather than a monster.

I place my hands respectfully at Willemina’s waist as we begin to move together, feeling tension in her body gradually release as she grows more comfortable with my proximity. The scent of her perfume cuts through the club’s manufactured atmosphere. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something suspiciously close to peace.

4

Wil

Itry to quell my nerves as he leads the way to the dance floor, and I follow, heart racing with anxiety and unexpected excitement. As we find a spot among the crowd, the music shifts to something slower, with a pulsing baseline that vibrates through the floor. Maxim places his hands respectfully at my waist, maintaining a proper distance between us.

I rest my hands tentatively on his shoulders, feeling solid muscle beneath expensive fabric. This close, I notice details I missed before, like a small scar near his right eyebrow, the precise way his dark hair is cut, and the subtle scent of his cologne mingling with something else I can’t identify but find oddly comforting.

We move together awkwardly at first, finding our rhythm. I’m hyperaware of his hands at my waist, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. When I finally gather the courage to meet his gaze directly, the intensity I find there makes it hard to breathe. He’s watching me with undisguised interest, as though memorizing every feature.

“So,” I say, desperate to break the charged silence between us, “Do you come here often?” I immediately cringe at the clichéd line.

Maxim’s lips twitch with amusement. “This is my first time, but I've been in places like this, primarily for business.”

I arch a brow. “Import business happens in nightclubs?”

“Networking happens everywhere.” His tone remains light, but something in his expression closes slightly. “Not everyone conducts business in conventional settings.”

I nod, sensing a boundary I shouldn’t push. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not.” His hands tighten fractionally at my waist as he guides me through a turn. “It’s refreshing, actually. Most people I meet either already know who I am or pretend to.”

The statement hangs between us, loaded with implications I can’t fully decipher. Before I can respond, the music shifts again, this time to something faster with a thumping beat that makes conversation impossible. Maxim raises a thick eyebrow in question. Continue or escape?

I surprise myself by moving closer, letting the music guide my movements. For a man so controlled, he dances with unexpected grace, his large frame somehow managing to make me feel graceful by association. As the crowd presses in around us, the distance between us naturally diminishes until I feel the heat radiating from his body.

Time becomes an idea, measured in songs rather than minutes. One dance becomes two, then three. I forget to feel self-conscious, caught up in the strange bubble we’ve created amidst the chaos. When his hand slides from my waist to the small of my back during a particularly crowded moment, pulling me slightly closer to shield me from a group of rowdy dancers, my heart rate spikes in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

After what must be our fifth or sixth song, I’m overheated and slightly dizzy from the combination of dancing, alcohol, and Maxim’s proximity. I gesture toward the edge of the dance floor, and he immediately understands, guiding me through the crowd with that same effortless authority I noticed earlier.

We find a relatively quiet corner near one of the tall stained glass windows. The colored lights filtering through cast rainbow patterns across Maxim’s face, softening his severe features. I lean against the cool stone wall, grateful for its solid support.

“Thank you for the dances,” I say, suddenly shy again now that we’re face to face without the excuse of music to fill the silence.

“The pleasure was mine.” His voice is lower now, more intimate in our relative isolation from the crowd. “You dance beautifully.”

I laugh, genuinely amused. “Now I know you’re being polite. I haven’t danced in years.”

“Then perhaps we should do it more often.” The suggestion hangs in the air between us, loaded with possibilities.

I study him, trying to understand what a man like Maxim—clearly wealthy, powerful, and accustomed to getting what he wants—sees in me. I’m not naive enough to think this is just about conversation, but there’s something in his gaze that seems more complex than simple attraction.

“I should probably find my roommate,” I say, though I make no move to leave. “Make sure she’s okay.”

“Of course.” He nods, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Unless...”

“Unless?”

“Unless you’d prefer not to end the evening just yet.” He takes a careful step closer, still maintaining a respectful distance. “I have access to a private suite upstairs. We could continue our conversation somewhere quieter.”

My heart pounds against my ribs. This is the moment where sensible Willemina Lamb should politely decline, find Gisele, and return to the safety of routine and predictability, but for once, I don’t want to be sensible. “Just conversation?” I ask, though we both know the question is merely performative.

The corner of his mouth lifts in that almost-smile. “If that’s what you prefer.”

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