Page 1 of The Mafia's Quadruplets

1

Claire

My hands move swiftly, arranging bouquets in the quaint family shop, Bloom House. The Philly streets never stop buzzing outside, a familiar background to the quiet place I’ve poured my heart into since Dad’s health began to fail. The sweet scent of new lilies mingles with the earthy aroma of fresh soil, and it all feels so comfortable and normal.

But it’s not really normal because I shouldn’t here today.

“Claire, honey, you didn’t have to come in,” Mom says, her voice warm but tinged with and undercurrent of concern. She adjusts a vase of sunflowers, their cheerful yellow petals a contrast to the worry lines around her eyes.

Dad nods in agreement, his movements slower than they used to be as he waters a row of potted plants. “You should be promoting your own business, not worrying about our little shop.”

I shake my head. “Unless you hire a new employee like I’ve been urging you to do for months, I’ll show up during your busy hours. No matter what.”

“Or if your brother bothers to help out,” Mom teases, but there’s a hint of sadness in her voice.

The mention of Jay makes my chest constrict. I force a smile, focusing on the delicate petals of the rose I’m trimming. “Yeah, well, we both know how likely that is.”

Dad sighs, setting down his watering can. “Claire, we appreciate your help, but your massage therapy business?—”

“Can wait,” I interrupt, my tone firmer than I intend. I soften it with a smile. “Really, it’s fine. I have appointments later this afternoon. Right now, I’m exactly where I need to be.”

The bell above the door chimes, signaling a customer. I turn, plastering on my best professional smile. A man in a crisp suit strides in, his gaze darting around the shop with barely concealed impatience.

“Welcome to Bloom House,” I greet him with a cheerful tone. “How can I help you today?”

He barely glances at me. “I need flowers. Something impressive. Money’s no issue.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Any particular occasion?”

“An apology.” He grunts, checking his watch. “My wife. I forgot our anniversary.”

I wince internally. I doubt flowers are going to help him at this point, especially since he seems bothered that he has toapologize in the first place. “Ah, I see,” I say. “Let’s see what we can do to help smooth things over.”

As I guide him through our selection, suggesting arrangements and explaining the meanings behind different flowers, I think of Jay. How many times has he shown up with apologies as lacking in sincerity as this guy’s gesture to his wife, trying to make amends for his latest transgressions?

More times than I can count, and honestly, with dad’s health problems, it’s starting to make me hate Jay.

The customer settles on an extravagant arrangement of red roses and white lilies. As I wrap it, he taps his foot impatiently.

“You know,” I say, tying the ribbon with practiced ease, “Flowers are a nice gesture, but they’re just the beginning. The real work comes after.”

He looks at me, really seeing me for the first time. “What do you mean?”

I hand him the bouquet. “Show her you’re sorry through your actions, not just your wallet. Be present. Listen. Make an effort to remember the important things.”

He blinks, then nods slowly. “I... Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he leaves, the bell chiming behind him, I catch Mom watching me with a proud smile. “What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.

She shakes her head. “Nothing, sweetie. You just... have such a good heart. You always know what to say to people.”

I shrug, busying myself with cleaning up the workstation. “It’s not a big deal. Just common sense, really.”

Dad comes over, resting a hand on my shoulder. “It is a big deal, Claire. You have a gift for helping people, whether it’s through your massages or just lending an ear. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Their words warm me, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind. If I’m so good at helping people, why couldn’t I help Jay be closer to the rest of our family? Why couldn’t I see how far he was getting before it was too late?

The bell chimes again, and this time it’s Mrs. Rossi, one of our regulars. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she clutches a handkerchief.

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