Page 12 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

"That's a generous interpretation." A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "What about you? When you're not acquiring nightclubs and rescuing out-of-place nurses, what do you enjoy?"

The question catches me by surprise. Few people ask about my personal preferences. Most either assume I share the stereotypical tastes of wealthy men or don't care about the person behind the power. I consider my answer carefully, wanting to offer something real despite my habitual caution. "I sail," I finally say after a moment of thought. "There's a clarity on the water that I don't find anywhere else. Everything unnecessary falls away."

"I've never been sailing." She turns from the window to face me fully. "I'm not sure I'd have the sea legs for it."

"I could take you sometime." The offer escapes before I consider the inferences. The suggestion of a future beyond tonight is dangerous territory.

She raises an eyebrow, a playful smile curving her lips. "Forward of you, Maxim, assuming I'll want to see you again after tonight."

"Hopeful, perhaps." I enjoy the subtle flirtation. "Or simply confident in my abilities to ensure you have a memorable evening."

"Confident or arrogant?" Her tone remains light despite the challenge.

"There's a fine line." I move closer until barely inches separate us. "Which side I fall on depends entirely on whether I can deliver on my promises."

Her breathing changes subtly, quickening as I enter her personal space. "And what exactly are you promising?"

"That depends on what you want." I maintain eye contact, letting her see desire normally concealed. "Conversation? Company? Something more?"

She breaks eye contact first, moving away from the intensity of the moment to settle on one of the low couches. The distance is deliberate, a recalibration rather than a rejection. I follow, sitting close enough to maintain connection without crowding her retreat.

"Let's start with conversation." She tucks her legs beneath her in a casual pose that contrasts with the elegance of her dress. "Tell me something about yourself that isn't related to business or nightclubs. Something more."

I consider deflecting, falling back on charm and surface details, but something about her directness deserves reciprocal honesty. "I have a younger sister. She's everything good that remains in my life."

Her expression softens, sensing the significance without pressing for details I won't provide. "Is she like you?"

"Not at all." Genuine warmth enters my voice. "She's brilliant and is currently working toward her PhD in literature. She sees beauty where I see strategy and possibilities where I see risks."

"She sounds wonderful." Her face animates with genuine interest rather than polite conversation. "You must be proud of her."

"Beyond words. She's the one pure thing I've managed not to taint."

Something in my phrasing catches her attention, tilting her head slightly as she studies me with renewed intensity. "That's an interesting way to put it. What is it you think you'd taint her with?"

I realize my mistake immediately. Speaking about Zina has lowered my guard, allowing glimpses of truths I normally conceal. I take a small sip of vodka, using the moment to recalibrate. "It’s all just family politics. Complications that come with certain names and histories. She deserves a future unburdened by all of that, and she’s pursuing it admirably."

"I understand that." Her response surprises me. "Names can carry weight, even when we don’t get to choose them."

"You sound like you’re speaking from experience," I reply, grateful for the shift away from my own revelations. I lean forward slightly. It’s an excuse to get closer to her.

She sighs, absently tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. "My father was a well-respected surgeon, brilliant by all accounts, who died when I was young. His reputation created certain expectations. Excellence isn't optional when you're Dr. Graham Lamb's daughter."

"Is that why you became a nurse? Following in his medical footsteps?"

"Partly." Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. "From what I remember of him, I think he would have preferred I become a surgeon like him. Nursing wasn't prestigious enough in his worldview."

"But it suited you better." I recognize the slight defiance beneath her words.

"It did. I wanted direct patient care, not surgical distance." Her expression brightens as she speaks about her work. "In the NICU, I form real relationships with families during their most vulnerable moments. It's intimate in a way surgery rarely allows. Not that there’s anything wrong with any medical profession, but I’m allowed to have a say in what I end up doing.”

I find myself fascinated by her passion, the way her entire demeanor transforms when discussing her vocation. Unlike the crazed ambition I encounter in my world, her drive stems from genuine compassion, a quality I've learned to view with suspicion yet find undeniably compelling in her.

"You love it," I say softly, and it's a statement rather than question. "Your work fulfills you."

"It does." She meets my gaze directly. "Doesn't yours?"

The question strikes deeper than she could know. Does moving drugs and weapons, extracting payments through fear and violence, and killing when necessary to maintain power fulfill me? Once, perhaps, when I still believed in the necessity of my role, and the protection it provided for those under my care.

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