Page 19 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

No response. The suite is dead silent. I scan the room for signs of his presence, but I find nothing. The only evidence that I didn’t dream the entire encounter is a single red rose resting on the pillow beside me, its petals perfectly cradled by the white silk.

Complex emotions swirl through me, including disappointment, embarrassment, and a strange relief that spares me the awkward morning-after conversation with a virtual stranger. I lift the rose, breathing in its subtle fragrance while running my finger along the stem where all thorns have been carefully removed. I normally dislike cut flowers, because they’re already dead, but I’m compelled to stroke this one gently for a second.

I slide from bed, wrapping the sheet around me like a makeshift toga as I explore the suite. The living area remains immaculate aside from two empty champagne flutes on the coffee table. In the bathroom, I find my borrowed dress hanging neatly on a hook, my underwear folded beside it. The consideration in this small gesture contrasts sharply with his absence.

A knock at the door startles me. Clutching the sheet tighter, I approach cautiously. “Who is it?”

“Breakfast, Ms. Lamb.”

I crack the door, revealing a young man with a covered tray. He’s wearing the uniform of the club below but looks awake and alert. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Compliments of Mr. Vorobev, ma’am. He arranged breakfast for nine.”

Vorobev. The name is unfamiliar, but Maxim never shared his last name last night. I step back, allowing the server to bring the tray into the room. He efficiently arranges the spread on the dining table. There are fresh fruit, pastries, smoked salmon, coffee, and orange juice.

He turns to me when he’s finished and smiles. “A car has been arranged whenever you’re ready to depart. Simply call seven-one-two on the internal phone to reach the office downstairs.”

He withdraws discreetly, leaving me alone with the elaborate breakfast and mounting questions. I slowly realize Maxim left no phone number and no promise to call. The finality sits heavily in my stomach, dampening my appetite despite the tempting spread before me.

What did I expect? A declaration of feelings after one night? A proposition for marriage because he’s utterly obsessed with me?

I force myself to eat, though the food tasteless despite its obvious quality. The practical nurse in me knows my body needs fuel, especially after last night’s... exertions. As I sip excellent coffee, I examine my feelings with clinical detachment.

Disappointment. Yes, but why? I specifically told him I wanted just one night, no strings attached. He’s simply respecting my stated boundaries.

Embarrassment. Unwarranted but persistent. I behaved unlike myself, surrendering to impulse rather than careful consideration.

Relief. Both legitimate and concerning. I don’t know this man, this “Mr. Vorobev,” whose wealth and influence seems known to everyone else.

There’s something else I’m reluctant to name. A hollow ache that suggests last night mattered more than I anticipated. The connection wasn’t purely physical. Something in our conversations, in the way he looked at me, and in how carefully he touched me, suggested recognition beyond mere attraction.

I shake my head, dispelling fanciful thoughts. One night doesn’t constitute a relationship, and mysterious businessmen who disappear before dawn aren’t reliable partner material. Besides, I have responsibilities, a career, and a carefully constructed life that doesn’t accommodate complications like Maxim Vorobev.

After breakfast, I shower in the ridiculously opulent bathroom. Hot water washes away physical evidence of the night but does nothing for the memories imprinted on my skin. I can still feel his hands, his mouth, and the weight of him above me.

I dry off with a plush towel, catching sight of myself in the full-length mirror. A purple mark decorates my inner thigh, and there’s another at the curve where neck meets shoulder. I have physical souvenirs I’ll need to hide beneath scrubs and high-collared shirts. I look different somehow. Not dramatically transformed, but slightly altered, as though last night rearranged something fundamental within me.

The borrowed dress feels even more inappropriate in daylight, but I have no alternatives. I slip it on, gathering my few belongings—clutch purse, phone, and dignity—preparing to leave this luxurious fantasy and return to reality.

Before departing, I take the rose, carefully wrapping its stem in a damp napkin to preserve it for the journey home. It’s a keepsake from a night I’ll never repeat but don’t wish to forget.

The concierge arranges a car with a single phone call. Within minutes, I’m whisked through a private exit, avoiding the main entrance where last night’s revelers are replaced by cleaning staff preparing for another evening of excess.

The car, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, feels like a final extension of Maxim’s world, though the logo is from a commercial transportation company. The driver asks nothing beyond my address, maintaining professional silence as we traverse Manhattan toward Brooklyn. I watch the cityscape blur past, ordinary people living ordinary lives, completely unaware of the parallel universe of privilege I briefly inhabited.

My apartment building appears startlingly shabby after the opulence of the hotel suite. I thank the driver, declining his offer to escort me inside. The journey back to normal life is mine alone to make.

Inside, the apartment is mercifully empty. Gisele must still be out, possibly continuing her birthday celebrations or more likely at Jake’s place. I’m grateful for her absence, needing time to process before facing her inevitable questions.

I change immediately, hanging the borrowed dress in my closet where it will likely remain unworn again. Comfortable leggings and an oversized t-shirt feel like armor against the lingering sensation of silk and expensive cotton against my skin.

In the kitchen, I fill a small crystal vase—my mother’s, and one of the few valuable items I own—with water, carefully placing the rose inside. The deep red petals seem to glow against the ordinary backdrop of my apartment, a splash of extraordinary amid the mundane.

The familiar routine of caring for my plants is appealing now. I move through my collection, checking the soil moisture, removing dead leaves, and rotating the pots for optimal light exposure. The peace lily needs water, the succulents are thriving, and the herbs require trimming. The monotony of it washes away the dreamlike quality of the past twenty-four hours.

It's so much more normal than the wild world I’ve gotten mixed up in.

When I reach my prized rose bush, I pause, suddenly struck by the parallel between the cut flower Maxim left and this living plant I’ve nurtured since my mother’s death. One beautiful but temporary, the other requiring constant attention but capable of blooming repeatedly.

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