Page 9 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Something about her discomfort resonates unexpectedly. I spend my life in places where I don’t truly belong, playing roles necessitated by birth and circumstance rather than choice. “First time at Eclipse?” I ask, though the answer is obvious.

She nods, still wary but less tense. “It’s my roommate’s birthday,” she explains, the words coming faster now. “She dragged me here, then promptly disappeared with some guy in a blue blazer.”

I smile despite myself. Her frankness is refreshing after the exchanges with the Kazanovs. “Not a fan of nightclubs?”

“Is it that obvious?” She tugs self-consciously at her dress again.

“You look like you’re planning an escape route.” I study her openly now, intrigued by what I see. “Most people here are trying to be seen. You’re trying to be invisible.”

My observation clearly unsettles her. She shifts uncomfortably, preparing to retreat. Acting on impulse I rarely indulge, I gesture toward the bar. “Let me buy you a drink 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.” I allow myself another smile, surprising even myself with the genuine amusement I feel.

She hesitates, clearly weighing stranger-danger warnings against some internal calculation I can’t decipher. Finally, she nods. “Okay. One drink.”

I guide her toward the bar, not touching her but aware of how people instinctively clear a path for me. Some faces register recognition, while others merely respond to the authority I project without conscious effort. The woman notices too, darting curious glances at those who step aside.

At the bar, I realize I should offer a name, but not my real one. That would end this conversation before it begins if she has any clue of who I am. “I’m Maxim,” I say, extending a hand.

“Willemina,” she says, her grip firm despite her evident nervousness. “Everyone calls me Wil.”

“Willemina,” I repeat, deliberately using her full name because it suits her, being elegant, somewhat old-fashioned, and with hidden strength in its syllables.

The bartender appears instantly, bypassing other waiting customers despite me not having been here before. The small perks of power are so ingrained I barely notice them anymore, though Willemina clearly does, raising her eyebrows slightly at the preferential treatment.

“What are you drinking?” I ask.

She glances at the elaborate cocktail menu with obvious overwhelm. “Just a gin and tonic, please.”

I signal the bartender. “Gin and tonic for the lady. Stolichnaya, neat, for me.”

Our drinks arrive promptly. I watch as she takes a careful sip, shoulders relaxing incrementally as the alcohol does its work.

“So, Willemina.” I lean against the bar, giving her my full attention in a way I rarely do with anyone outside business or family. “What do you do when you’re not being dragged to nightclubs by birthday roommates?”

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

The answer surprises me. I’d expected something conventional. Marketing, perhaps, or finance assistant. Not someone who works daily with life’s fragility. “Premature babies?” I clarify, genuinely interested.

She nods, animation entering her expression for the first time. “The smallest, sickest ones. It’s challenging but rewarding. Every day is different.” She stops abruptly, seeming embarrassed by her enthusiasm. “Sorry, not exactly exciting nightclub conversation.”

“On the contrary,” I say truthfully. “It’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard all night. You save lives while the rest of us...” I gesture at the excess surrounding us. “Waste them.”

The words emerge more honestly than intended, carrying weight I hadn’t meant to reveal. Willemina studies me with newfound curiosity, green eyes more perceptive than I initially gave her credit for.

“What about you?” she asks. “What do you do?”

There's the question I always dread in civilian conversations. I offer my standard cover story, developed ages ago for these types of situations. “I’m in the import business. Nothing as meaningful as your work.”

She seems about to press further when the music changes, the beat becoming more insistent. An opportunity to change subjects presents itself, and I take it. “Would you like to dance?” I ask, surprising myself as much as her. I haven’t properly danced in years. Not for pleasure, at least. Formal events require certain perfunctory movements with appropriate partners, but that’s performance, not enjoyment. This impulse is different, disconnected from strategy or obligation.

Willemina looks startled by the invitation, then thoughtful. Finally, she finishes her drink in a single swallow that hints at hidden depths beneath her outward propriety. “Why not?” she says with unexpected decisiveness. “Fair warning though. I’m terrible at it.”

My lips curve into another genuine smile, the second in minutes after weeks without one. “Then we’ll be terrible together.”

I lead the way to the dance floor, aware of Leonid watching from the perimeter, of Fedor observing from the VIP section with obvious curiosity, and of the countless invisible threads of obligation and danger that define my existence. For once, I ignore them all.

---