Page 5 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

“I’m not hiding,” I protest weakly. “I’m just... focused on my career.”

“You’re twenty-seven, not seventy. One night out won’t kill you.” She sits beside me on the bed, her expression softening. “Look, I know the hospital work is important to you. I know those babies need you, but sometimes, I worry you use it as an excuse to avoid living.”

Her words hit uncomfortably close to home. Since Mom died, I’ve built walls around myself, constructing a life of predictable routines, where nothing can surprise or hurt me.

Work, home, and plants, then sleep.

Repeatable. Safe. Controlled.

“Remember when we first met in college?” Gisele continues. “You were shy but still adventurous. You’d try anything once. What happened to that girl?”

“She grew up,” I mumble. “Responsibility happened.”

“Bullshit. Grief happened, and I’ve given you space for that, but it’s been ten years, Wil.” She takes my hands in hers. “This is my one birthday wish. For my best friend to come dance with me at the hottest club in Manhattan and remember what it feels like to be young and carefree for one night.”

Put like that, how can I refuse? Besides, I still feel guilty about forgetting her birthday. “Fine. One night, but I’m not wearing anything ridiculous.”

She flashes a victorious grin. “We’ll see about that.” She bounces off the bed and disappears, returning moments later with an armful of clothing. “I’ve been preparing for this negotiation. Options.”

The next two hours are a whirlwind of rejected outfits, makeup application, and Gisele’s running commentary on my “criminally neglected” potential. I finally agree to a black dress that’s more revealing than anything I’d choose for myself but not completely outside my comfort zone. The fabric hugs curves I usually hide under shapeless scrubs, stopping mid-thigh in a way that makes me constantly want to tug it lower.

“Stop fidgeting.” Gisele slaps my hand away from the hemline. “You look hot! Those legs need to see daylight occasionally. Or nightclub light, whatever.”

I turn skeptically toward the mirror. The stranger looking back at me is undeniably more polished than usual. Gisele has somehow tamed my unruly brown waves into something sleek and intentional. The minimal makeup emphasizes my green eyes, making them appear larger and more dramatic.

“I feel like I’m playing dress-up,” I say, wobbling slightly in the borrowed heels.

“That’s the point of going out.” Gisele applies another layer of something glossy to her lips. “We get to be whoever we want for a night. No responsibilities, and no expectations.”

The concept is foreign to me. I’ve spent so long being exactly who I’m expected to be—reliable Willemina, dedicated nurse and responsible adult—that I’m not sure I remember how to be anyone else.

We grab a rideshare to Manhattan, Gisele chattering excitedly about the celebrities who frequent Eclipse while I nod and try to ignore the growing anxiety in my chest. The car drops us in the Meatpacking District, where a line of impossibly beautiful people stretches down the block outside an unmarked door.

“We’re going to be waiting for hours,” I mutter, already dreaming of my bed.

“No, we’re not.” She grabs my hand, bypassing the line entirely and approaching a mountain of a man with an earpiece and clipboard. “Gisele Nelson and Willemina Lamb. Jake McAllister’s guests.”

The bouncer scans his list, face impassive. After an excruciating moment, he nods once and unhooks the velvet rope. “Welcome to Eclipse. Enjoy your evening.”

Inside, I’m immediately assaulted by sensory overload. The music pulses so loudly I feel it in my chest, competing with the rapid beating of my heart. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, casting prismatic light across the crowded space. Beautiful people move like exotic creatures through the artificial fog, drinks in hand, and laughing at jokes I can’t hear.

“Isn’t this amazing?” she shouts over the music, her face alight with excitement.

I nod automatically, though “amazing” isn’t the word I’d choose. “Overwhelming” feels more accurate. The air is thick with expensive perfume and cologne, making it difficult to breathe. Every surface seems designed for Instagram rather than actual comfort, with velvet ropes, gold-trimmed tables, and champagne towers that make me feel gauche.

“Let’s get drinks.” Gisele pulls me toward the crowded bar, expertly navigating the press of bodies with the confidence of someone who belongs in this world of excess.

While she orders something complicated and undoubtedly overpriced, I scan the room, feeling increasingly like an impostor. In one corner, a roped-off section hosts what appears to be a minor celebrity and entourage. In another, finance types in expensive suits throw money around with casual disregard, ordering bottles with sparklers that servers parade through the crowd.

“Here.” Gisele presses a crystal glass into my hand. “It’s called ‘Midnight Sin.’ Fitting, right?”

I take a cautious sip, surprised by the pleasant balance of sweet and bitter. “It’s good.”

“Of course, it is. It costs twenty-eight dollars.” She clinks her glass against mine. “To my birthday and your reintroduction to nightlife.”

I manage a smile, determined to at least appear to be enjoying myself for her sake. The alcohol helps, spreading warmth through my limbs and softening the sharp edges of my anxiety. We find a small high-top table to claim as home base, watching the crowd grow thicker as the night progresses.

“Jake?” Gisele suddenly squeals, waving frantically at a tall man in a blue blazer making his way toward us. “You made it.”

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