Page 6 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

The mysterious Jake turns out to be her latest conquest. He’s handsome in that generic, Wall Street way, with perfect teeth and an expensive watch that’s subtly flashy. He kisses Gisele’s cheek, then mine, his cologne overwhelming at close range.

“Birthday girl.” He hands Gisele a small gift box wrapped in silver paper. “Sorry I’m late. Client dinner ran long.”

“You’re here now,” she says, already tearing into the package. Inside is a delicate bracelet that she immediately fawns over, allowing Jake to fasten it around her wrist with obvious satisfaction.

I sip my drink, feeling increasingly like a fifth wheel as they fall into conversation filled with inside jokes and lingering touches. After finishing a second overpriced cocktail, I touch Gisele’s arm. “I’m going to find the restroom. Be right back.”

She nods, barely looking away from Jake. “Take your time.”

The bathroom proves to be as pretentious as the rest of the club, with attendants offering perfume and hand towels, fresh flowers on marble countertops, and stalls with actual doors that reach the floor. I take longer than necessary, fixing my lipstick and adjusting my dress, delaying my return to awkward fifth-wheel status.

When I finally emerge, the club has grown even more crowded. The dance floor is now packed with writhing bodies moving to a pulsing electronic beat. I scan for our table, but Gisele and Jake are nowhere to be seen. Great. She’s abandoned me on her own birthday.

I check my phone, but there are no messages, of course. Typical Gisele, caught up in the moment without considering others. I debate texting her but decide against it. She deserves her birthday fun, and I’d only be dragging her down with my discomfort anyway.

Unsure what to do next, I make my way back to the bar, intending to nurse one more drink before calling it a night. The crowd seems to part and reform around me like water, as everyone else moves with ease while I stand out as clearly as a sore thumb. A group of men in expensive suits eye me as I pass, one nudging another and nodding in my direction. I quicken my pace, gaze fixed on the floor, and praying they don’t approach.

In my haste to escape their attention, I don’t see the man stepping into my path until it’s too late. I collide with a solid wall of chest, my small clutch purse falling to the floor as I stumble backward, apologies already forming on my lips. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking. “

The words die as I look up—and up—into the most intense eyes I’ve ever seen. Dark brown with flecks of amber, they study me with an unsettling focus beneath straight brows. The man towers over me even in my heels, his presence commanding in a way that has nothing to do with his height and everything to do with the aura of authority he exudes.

He’s older than the finance boys—mid-thirties perhaps—and dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that screams old money rather than new wealth. His features are striking rather than conventionally handsome, with a strong jaw, prominent nose, and full lips pressed into a neutral line. Not a face that smiles often, I think automatically.

I realize I’m staring and snap my mouth shut, embarrassment heating my cheeks. The stranger bends to retrieve my purse, the movement graceful despite his size. When he straightens, there’s something in his expression I can’t quite place. Curiosity, perhaps?

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice deep and lightly accented. Russian, maybe?

“No, I’m fine. Just embarrassed.” I take the purse from his outstretched hand, careful not to touch his fingers. “It’s crowded, and I’m not really...” I gesture vaguely at our surroundings, unable to articulate that I don’t belong here, that this world of beautiful people and expensive drinks is as foreign to me as Mars.

But somehow, he seems to understand. His expression shifts subtly, interest replacing polite concern. “First time at Eclipse?”

I nod, wondering why this intimidating stranger is bothering with conversation. Men who look like him don’t typically notice women who look like me, especially in places like this, where models and socialites are a dime a dozen.

“It’s my roommate’s birthday,” I say, unsure why I’m sharing this information. “She dragged me here, then promptly disappeared with some guy in a blue blazer.”

A brief smile transforms his severe features, revealing perfect teeth and unexpected laugh lines around his eyes. “Not a fan of nightclubs?”

“Is it that obvious?” I tug self-consciously at my borrowed dress.

“You look like you’re planning an escape route.” His gaze is penetrating but not unkind. “Most people here are trying to be seen. You’re trying to be invisible.”

The accuracy of his assessment is disconcerting. I shift uncomfortably, ready to make my excuses and retreat, when he gestures toward the bar.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he offers. “To apologize for standing in your path.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I walked into you.”

“Then let me buy you a drink because you look like you need one more than anyone else in this place.” Another almost-smile, this one reaching his eyes and transforming them from intimidating to almost warm.

Against all my better judgment, I find myself nodding. “Okay. One drink.”

He guides me toward the bar, not touching me but somehow clearing a path through the crowd with his presence alone. People step aside automatically, some with flickers of recognition or wariness in their eyes, and I wonder briefly who he is. Someone important, clearly.

“I’m Maxim,” he says as we reach the bar, extending a hand.

I take it, noting the strength in his grip, and the calluses that suggest he does more than push papers despite the expensive suit. “Willemina, but everyone calls me Wil.”

“Willemina,” he repeats, ignoring my correction, my full name sounding strangely formal and intimate in his accented voice. “What are you drinking?”

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