Veil of Smoke (Crimson Crowns #2)

Prologue – Viviana

Smooth jazz sways low through the shop, notes curling like ivy between stems and glass. I hum along—Chet Baker, maybe Coltrane—something mellow, old, the kind that knows how to linger. The kind that doesn't demand attention, just offers a mood and lets you sit inside it.

My fingers move without thought, choosing roses with the certainty of muscle memory. Three red, two ivory, one blush. Memory, mercy, hope.

They spiral together as I bind them. A bouquet for a Tuesday widow. Her eyes didn’t quite meet mine when she placed the order, but her voice held. People think grief makes you fragile. But I’ve seen more strength in a trembling hand than in clenched fists.

The stems resist as I trim them, fresh and green. Sharp enough to bite skin if I’m careless. I rarely am.

Torrisi Blooms smells of lavender and lemon balm today. A hint of freesia clings from the arrangement I did for the gallery opening last night. The air carries a faint chill through the half-cracked window—autumn nosing in under the scent of flowers and earth. Outside, the street murmurs in soft rhythms: footsteps, traffic, city murk. I let it fade behind the music.

This shop is everything my father never got to see. Brick, glass, soft corners, and color. Order. He’d called it a “damn miracle” that I could keep a flower alive, let alone sell them to the city’s broken hearts.

I smile at the thought. It’s a tired smile, but it holds.

My father's badge sits framed behind the register, next to Camila’s photo. She’s seventeen in it, all dimples and trouble, chin high like she thought the world owed her. Maybe it did. Maybe that’s why it took her so hard.

I reach out to touch her frame, but then hesitate. My hand finds the locket around my throat—a quiet tick I haven’t broken. The silver is cold even through my sweater, as if memory cools faster than the body does.

The bell above the door doesn’t ring when the courier enters. Just the scrape of rubber soles and the soft slam of a parcel hitting the counter.

“Delivery,” he mutters.

I look up. He’s not the usual guy—no warm grin, no flower jokes. He’s young, thin, looks like he borrowed someone else’s uniform. Doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Wait—”

But he’s already out the door, vanishing between the glitter of passing cars.

I look down at the package. Brown paper. No branding. Taped seams like a body bag.

“Don’t be dramatic, Viviana,” I say to myself. It’s just paper.

Still, I hesitate before peeling the flap open.

Inside, only a slip of cream stock, no logo or header. Bold, simple type:

Red Thorn – Dock 7 – 9PM

That’s it. No invoice. No sender. No reason. No request.

I check the back. Blank.

No manifest, no wrapping, not even a scent of adhesive or ink. Just words.

“Red Thorn.” My voice is barely above a breath, but it catches in the quiet.

The name lands strange in my mouth. Like a warning. Or a code.

Wrong address, probably. The warehouse down the block takes shipments constantly. Could’ve been meant for them. I should toss it.

Instead, I turn it over again, reading the words like they’ll rearrange themselves into something that makes sense. There’s a tingling sense of curiosity and danger as I read the words.

Red is memory.

Thorn is... consequence?

No. Too poetic.

I place the slip on the counter and sign the last of my delivery receipts. A few clients picked up early. One canceled, no-show. The supplier from West End still hasn’t delivered the orchids I requested for Friday’s funeral wreaths. That’s two days now. Unusual. But not unheard of.

I pull out my phone to call.

It goes to voicemail.

I leave a short message. Clipped. Professional. With the right undertone of irritation. Then I set the phone down, wipe my hands, and try to return to the bouquet.

But my rhythm stutters.

The stems don’t sit quite right. The symmetry’s off. And when I try to tighten the ribbon, it snaps in my hand.

I mutter a curse and reach for a fresh one, breath steady, precise.

I tuck the original ribbon into my apron pocket—and brush against the slip.

Still there. Still in my hand.

I’m halfway through a new wrap when I feel the sting.

A thorn pierces the pad of my finger, sudden and sharp.

Blood wells fast, dark against skin. A single drop splashes onto the tile. It sits there—bright, refusing to soak in.

A red petal drops a moment later, landing just beside it.

Color against color. Petal beside blood.

I close my eyes, and I’m twelve again. Standing in front of a closed casket, the scent of gardenias thick as glue. The chaplain’s voice is muffled. My father’s badge lies in velvet, folded with his flag. Camila sobs next to me, makeup streaked, mascara bleeding.

I shake it off and press a paper towel to my finger. The wound’s small. Not deep. Still, it throbs.

I glance toward the windows.

The golden light outside slants longer now, stretching across the pavement. And across the street, for the briefest second, a black car idles.

It’s sleek. Out of place.

Then it’s gone.

The bell above the door stays still. No footsteps. No engine.

Just absence.

My throat tightens, but I don’t give in to the shiver that rides my spine. I walk calmly to the door and flip the sign.

Closed.

Early, but I’m done for the day. Orders filled. Bouquets wrapped. The place smells too sweet anyway. Too full of things that aren’t answers.

I lock the door and draw the blinds halfway, enough to mute the outside but not dim the space completely. The last of the sun stains the hardwood floors in bands of gold and shadow. The slip sits on the counter. Bare. Undemanding. Still.

I place it beneath the till and move through the shop, resetting. Vases rinsed. Leaves swept. A few petals tucked into compost. My hands go through motions honed by habit, but my mind’s gone tight, knotted like twine pulled wrong.

I dial the supplier again. On the third ring, I hang up.

The orchids won’t come today.

Near the register, the framed badge gleams. My father’s name etched in steel. Cleaned every week. Respected always. I hold his gaze in the photograph next to it, the one where he’s smiling faintly—just one side of his mouth, like he knew more than he said.

Next to him, Camila grins in that shot from junior prom. She’s too loud for the frame, all glitter and teeth, eyes bright with fire that never burned long enough.

I return to the counter and lift the slip again.

Red Thorn.

Dock 7.

The clock on the wall ticks past six.

I wrap the last bouquet, fix the storefront, and count the till. Routine comes easy. Control is muscle here.

Outside, a breeze snags a few leaves across the sidewalk. A man in a hoodie walks past without looking in. I catch sight of the black car again, half a block down this time. Parked. No movement.

It stays there when I finish. When I grab my coat. When I flip the lights.

The slip is already in my pocket.