Page 20 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
My phone chimes with a text from Gisele.
OMG, GIRL, WHERE ARE YOU?? Did you go home with someone?? DETAILS NEEDED!!
Reality crashes back fully. I’ll need to tell Gisele something. She won’t accept vague deflections or changed subjects, but how to explain a night that already feels like a dream? How do I describe Maxim? Intense, controlled, and surprisingly vulnerable in unguarded moments?
I shouldn’t say too much.
Home now. Long story. Talk later.
Her response is immediate.
YOU DID!! You totally hooked up! I need EVERY detail. Home in 20!
I set aside my phone, unready for Gisele’s enthusiastic interrogation. Twenty minutes isn’t enough time to construct the carefully edited version of events I’ll share. Excitement and adventure without the confusing emotional undertones.
I’m startled by the doorbell ringing and approach, peering through the peephole first before unlocking all three locks when I see a deliverywoman holding a plant. “Yes?”
“I have a delivery for Miss Willemina Lamb.”
I frown. “That’s me, but who…” I trail off as she hands me a small rosebush with a few tightly closed red buds. “There’s no card.” I say it more like a statement than a question.
She looks at her electronic device. “The sender is anonymous.”
“Thanks.” I dig in my purse for a tip and close the door behind her, staring at the living rosebush. I don’t need a card to know it’s from Maxim. He clearly remembered my remarks about preferring living plants to dead flowers. It’s a more thoughtful goodbye, but that’s clearly what it is.
Hesitantly, I move toward the plants I’ve collected and set the small bush next to the fuller, more vibrant bush from my mother. The lone flower he left on the pillow seems even sadder now, and I impulsively dump the vase and throw it away. It feels like severing the connection, or at least, a weak attempt to do so.
To completely excise the night, I should throw away the living bush too, but I can’t bring myself to do that. It’s fragile but alive, waiting to burst into bloom. It reminds me of the passionate hours I spent with Maxim last night, blooming into something new and unexpected. That part of me has wilted again, carefully locked away, but I still can’t bring myself to throw out the rosebush. That feels too final somehow, like slamming a door on the moment when I’m tempted to leave it open just a crack.
Instead of murdering the rosebush, I retreat to the bathroom, examining the marks on my skin. The one on my neck can be covered with makeup or a scarf. The others will remain private reminders, hidden beneath clothing and professionalism.
In the mirror, I search for visible evidence of transformation, some outward sign of the internal shift I feel, but my reflection appears unchanged. Same green eyes, same dark hair, and same mouth that gasped Maxim’s name just hours ago. Whatever altered within me remains invisible, a secret between my body and memory.
Gisele’s key turns in the lock fifteen minutes later. Earlier than promised, typical of her impatience. She bursts into the apartment like a redheaded hurricane, still wearing last night’s silver dress, makeup slightly smudged but eyes bright with excitement and curiosity.
“You disappeared,” she exclaims, dropping her purse and kicking off heels simultaneously. “One minute you were going to the bathroom, next thing I know you’re gone! I texted you like a million times!”
I check my phone, finding multiple missed messages I hadn’t noticed in my distraction. “Sorry. I should have let you know I was leaving.”
“Forget apologies.” She waves dismissively, dropping onto the couch beside me. “Tell me EVERYTHING. Who was he? Where did you go? Was it amazing? It had to be amazing for you to abandon your best friend on her birthday.”
“You seemed pretty occupied with Jake,” I deflect, buying time. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Nice try. Spill it.” She pokes my arm insistently. “You never do this. Ever. So whoever he was must have been spectacular.”
I sigh, accepting the inevitable. “His name was Maxim. We danced, talked, and yes, went upstairs to his apartment above the club.”
“Maxim?” She practically squeals. “That’s hot. Foreign? Rich? Details, Wil.”
“Russian, I think, and yes, definitely wealthy.” I volunteer the basic facts, hoping they’ll satisfy her. “He had access to a private suite above the club because he’d just bought the club.”
Gisele’s eyes widen comically. “The penthouse suites? Those are impossible to get! Even Jake was impressed by them, and he knows everybody.” She leans forward eagerly. “So? How was it?”
“It was...” I search for words that won’t reveal too much. “Unexpected. Good. Different.”
“Different how?” She studies my face with sudden seriousness. “Wait, he wasn’t weird or pushy, was he? Because I’ll hunt him down if?—”
“No, nothing like that,” I assure her quickly. “He was...considerate. Intense, but in a good way.” The description feels woefully inadequate for what transpired between us, but it satisfies Gisele’s concern, her expression relaxing into renewed curiosity.
