Page 18 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

“I was wondering if you’d like to watch a movie before bed. ‘Die Hard,’ perhaps?” The invitation surprises even me. I hadn’t planned it, but now that it’s out there, I hope she’ll accept. At least she doesn’t seem as tired as she did when she was yawning over the end of dinner. My reluctance to end this time with her is telling me something I don’t want to acknowledge, so I ignore it.

Claire blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Are you sure?” she asks.

I nod, maintaining my composure despite the strange flutter in my stomach. “There’s a lounge downstairs. We could watch it there.”

She hesitates, and for a moment, I’m certain she’ll refuse. To my surprise, she nods. “Okay. Just let me change into something more comfortable.”

“Of course. I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

I leave her to change, heading to my own room to swap my suit for lounge pants and a T-shirt. It’s a far cry from my usual evening attire, but it’s appropriate for a casual movie night.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the lounge, setting up the movie when Claire enters. She’s wearing flannel pajama pants and an oversized T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. The sight of her so relaxed and unguarded catches me off guard. “Make yourself comfortable,” I say, gesturing to the plush leather couch.

She sits, curling her legs underneath her. I settle on the opposite end, careful to maintain a respectful distance. A bowl of popcorn sits between us, which is a strangely normal touch to this surreal situation. As the movie starts, I’m hyper-aware of her presence. It makes me feel as nervous as my first real date, also a movie—but this isn’t a date, I sternly remind myself.

“I haven’t seen this movie in years,” she says, breaking the silence.

I glance at her, surprised by the hint of a smile on her face. “It’s a classic.”

“My dad loves it. We used to watch it every Christmas.”

The mention of her family reminds me of the circumstances that brought her here. An unexpected twinge of... something hits me. Guilt? Regret? I push aside the feeling, focusing on the movie.

Claire shifts on the couch, pulling up her legs and wrapping her arms around her knees. She’s careful not to invade my space, maintaining a respectful distance between us. The bowl of popcorn sits on the cushion, a neutral zone neither of us breaches.

On-screen, John McClane crawls through an air duct, muttering to himself. Claire chuckles softly. I’m watching her more than the film, fascinated by her reactions.

“You know,” she says, her gaze still on the screen, “Jay always wanted to be an action hero like McClane. He’d run around the house in his underwear, wielding a banana like a gun.”

The image makes me smirk. “I’m sure that was quite a sight.”

Claire nods, her smile fading slightly. “He was always so full of energy, always dreaming big. I guess that’s what led him to...” She trails off, her expression clouding.

I resist the urge to reach out and touch her. Instead, I say, “People make mistakes. It doesn’t define who they are.”

She turns to look at me. “Even when those mistakes hurt the people they love?”

The question hangs in the air between us. I consider my words carefully. “Especially then. It’s how we choose to move forward that matters.”

Claire nods slowly, returning her attention to the movie. We lapse into silence, the only sounds the crunch of popcorn and the gunfire from the TV. As the film progresses, Claire’s eyelids grow heavy. She fights it at first, blinking rapidly and shifting position, but eventually, her head begins to nod, jerking up each time she catches herself drifting off.

I pretend not to notice, keeping my focus on the screen. Part of me wants to suggest she go to bed, but a larger part enjoys her presence too much to send her away.

Finally, Claire loses the battle with sleep. Her head tilts to the side, coming to rest on the back of the couch. Her breathing evens out, deep and steady.

I allow myself to study her openly now. In sleep, the wariness that usually tightens her features is gone. She looks younger and more vulnerable. A strand of hair has fallen across her face, and I fight the urge to brush it away.

The movie ends, rolling credits across the screen as I turn off the TV, plunging the room into darkness save for the soft glow of a nearby lamp. Claire doesn’t stir. I stand, stretching muscles stiff from sitting still for so long. I should wake her and send her to her room. It’s the sensible thing to do.

Instead, I move around the couch. With careful movements, I slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. She’s lighter than I expected, fitting easily against my chest when I lift her.

Claire murmurs something unintelligible, her head lolling against my shoulder. I freeze, certain she’ll wake, but she merely sighs, burrowing closer to my warmth.

I carry her through the silent house. The blue room isn’t far, but the journey seems to stretch on endlessly. Every tiny movement Claire makes is magnified in the stillness. Pushing open the door with my shoulder, I enter the blue room and lay her down gently, careful not to jostle her.

She rolls onto her side, curling into a ball. I pull the comforter over her, tucking it around her shoulders. My hand lingers for a moment, hovering just above her hair.

I step back, taking in the sight of her. The moonlight catches her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, and the sweep of herlashes. She looks peaceful, unburdened by her family’s troubles or her deal with me.

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