Page 7 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

I glance at the elaborate cocktail menu and feel immediately overwhelmed. “Just a gin and tonic, please.”

He signals the bartender, who appears instantly despite the crowd of people trying to order. “Gin and tonic for the lady. Stolichnaya, neat, for me.”

The drinks arrive with remarkable speed. I take a sip, grateful for the simple, familiar taste after the overly sweet concoctions Gisele ordered earlier.

“So, Willemina…” Maxim leans against the bar, giving me his full attention in a way that’s both flattering and slightly unnerving. “What do you do when you’re not being dragged to nightclubs by birthday roommates?”

“I’m a nurse in the NICU at New York Presbyterian.”

Something shifts in his expression. Surprise, or maybe respect? “Premature babies?”

I nod, warming to the topic. “The smallest, sickest ones. It’s challenging but rewarding. Every day is different.” I stop, realizing I’m about to launch into nursing talk. “Sorry, not exactly exciting nightclub conversation.”

“On the contrary,” he says, his intense gaze never leaving my face. “It’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard all night. You save lives while the rest of us...” He gestures at the excess surrounding us. “Waste them.”

The statement carries a weight that seems personal, almost confessional. I study him over the rim of my glass, sensing depths beneath the expensive suit and commanding presence. “What about you?” I ask. “What do you do?”

A shadow passes over his features, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “I’m in business. Import-export, primarily. Nothing as meaningful as your work.”

There’s something rehearsed about the answer, but before I can consider it further, the music changes, the beat becoming more insistent. Maxim sets down his empty glass.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks, surprising me.

I haven’t properly danced in years, and the crowded floor of beautiful people is intimidating, but something about tonight—the alcohol, the strange circumstances, and this enigmatic man’s unexpected attention—makes me reckless. “Why not?” I finish my drink in a single swallow, the gin burning pleasantly down my throat. “Fair warning though. I’m terrible at it.”

Maxim’s lips curve into another of those smiles that transform his severe features. “Then we’ll be terrible together.”

He leads the way to the dance floor, and I follow, thinking this is either the most interesting night I’ve had in years, or the beginning of a cautionary tale Gisele will tell at my funeral. Either way, for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel fully, terrifyingly alive.

3

Mak

Istep out of the black Maybach, nodding to Pavel to wait. Tonight is business, not pleasure, though my cousin seems determined to blur those lines. The Eclipse acquisition is a necessary strategic expansion. The nightclub offers prime territory and excellent money laundering potential, but Fedor’s insistence on “celebrating” our new venture after the meeting with the Kazanovs seems unnecessary.

“You’ll like Eclipse,” he promised earlier. “The most exclusive club in Manhattan. Only the elite come here. It’s perfect for cementing new relationships.”

What Fedor really means is it’s perfect for flaunting wealth, displaying power, and reminding everyone who controls this city from the shadows. Sometimes, I wonder if he remembers that the point of power isn’t showing it off but wielding it effectively.

Two security guards walk beside me as I approach the unmarked entrance. Leonid leads, scanning constantly like he’s expecting an attack. We’re using the VIP entrance, so there are no long lines or velvet ropes. It’s just us, which makes it easier to pick out danger.

We get inside without an issue, and I’m hit by a wave of music and energy. Eclipse occupies a converted cathedral, its gothic architecture now serving different gods.

Money. Status. Vanity.

Stained glass windows backlit with blue and purple LEDs cast trippy patterns across the dance floor, where beautiful people perform their pre-mating rituals. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, while private booths ring the perimeter like confessionals for the wealthy to whisper their secrets.

It’s another grand playground for the privileged, where nothing real happens, though tonight might be the exception. The only reason I agreed to come was to meet with Kazanov.

“Mr. Vorobev.” The club manager appears, practically bowing. “Your table is ready. Mr. Kazanov’s representatives arrived ten minutes ago.”

I nod once, following him through the crowd. People part instinctively, sensing danger without identifying its source. Some stare too long, drawn to power they can sense but not name. Others avert their eyes, animal instinct recognizing a predator. I’ve grown accustomed to both reactions.

Fedor waits in our reserved VIP section, already entertaining three men in flashy suits, who can only be the Kazanov delegation. Their excessive jewelry and overeager laughter mark them as new money trying too hard. Beside them, my cousin looks positively restrained, though the crystal decanter of vodka on the table suggests they’ve started without me.

“Mak.” Fedor rises, embracing me with theatrical warmth for our audience. His breath smells of expensive liquor. “Finally. I was telling our friends about the expansion opportunities.”

I extract myself from his embrace, nodding to the Kazanovs with precisely calibrated cordiality. This meeting is a courtesy, not a negotiation. The Eclipse purchase moves forward regardless of their feelings, but maintaining peace serves everyone’s interests.

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