A Merry Little Vendetta (25 Days of Christmas: Bikers & Mobsters)

Chapter One

Alessandro “The Shadow” De Luca

The scent of pine and cinnamon hits me before I even push through the door.

I pause on the threshold of Petals & Pines, my hand still on the frosted glass, and wonder, not for the first time today, what the hell I’m doing here.

I don’t buy flowers. My men buy flowers for me.

Usually for funerals I’ve caused, occasionally for mothers I’m obligated to appease.

But here I am, Alessandro De Luca, standing outside a flower shop in the middle of downtown Seattle like some lovesick teenager instead of the man who controls half this city’s underground.

The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, and I’m immediately assaulted by color.

Christ. So much color.

Everywhere I look, there are flowers hanging from the ceiling in artful arrangements, climbing up rustic wooden shelves, spilling out of vintage metal buckets.

Deep red roses that remind me of blood. White lilies that make me think of funerals.

Golden chrysanthemums catching the warm light from Edison bulbs strung across exposed brick walls.

But it’s the Christmas decorations that really catch my attention, garlands of fresh pine wound with fairy lights, wreaths adorned with red berries and gold ribbon, poinsettias in every shade from cream to crimson.

The shop itself is small, maybe thirty feet deep, but every inch is utilized.

The walls are exposed brick on one side, painted a soft sage green on the other.

Wooden crates serve as display stands, each one labeled with chalk script that’s almost too pretty to read.

There’s a vintage ladder propped in the corner, draped with eucalyptus.

A velvet settee the color of moss sits near the window, probably for customers who need to rest while their significant others agonize over bouquet choices.

And Christmas music plays softly from somewhere, not the obnoxious pop versions, but a jazzy rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” that doesn’t make me want to shoot the speakers.

It’s warm. Inviting. The complete opposite of everywhere I usually spend my time.

Then I see her.

She’s standing behind a worktable near the back, surrounded by a controlled chaos of stems and ribbons.

Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in some kind of messy knot situation, held in place by what appears to be a pencil.

She’s wearing a cream-colored sweater that’s too big for her, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and a green apron covered in smudges of dirt and plant matter.

Her hands move with practiced efficiency as she trims the stem of a white rose at an angle, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

She hasn’t noticed me yet.

I take the opportunity to study her, the way I would any potential threat or asset. Except she’s neither. She’s just... stunning.

Not in the polished, high-maintenance way of the women who usually orbit my world.

There’s no designer anything on her. No obvious effort to impress.

A smudge of dirt crosses her cheekbone, and there’s a small rip in the knee of her jeans.

But when she finally glances up and our eyes meet, I forget how to breathe.

Her eyes are the color of honey in sunlight—warm, golden brown with flecks of amber. They widen slightly as she takes me in, and I’m suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how I must look.

Black wool coat, perfectly tailored. Black suit beneath it.

Black shoes polished to a mirror shine. The only color on me is the deep burgundy of my tie, and even that’s muted.

I know what I look like. I’ve cultivated this image carefully to be cold, controlled and dangerous.

The kind of man you cross the street to avoid.

But she doesn’t look away.

Instead, she sets down her pruning shears, wipes her hands on her apron, and smiles.

It’s not a nervous smile. Not a flirtatious one. It’s just... genuine. Warm. Like I’m any other customer who wandered in from the December cold.

“Hi there!” Her voice matches her smile, it’s bright, friendly, with just a hint of rasp that does something unfortunate to my pulse. “Welcome to Petals & Pines. Are you looking for something specific, or just browsing?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Marco, my second-in-command, would be laughing his ass off if he could see me right now. Alessandro De Luca, the man who’s negotiated million-dollar deals and stared down the barrel of more guns than he can count, struck dumb by a woman in a flower shop.

“Flowers,” I finally manage, then immediately want to kick myself. No shit, I’m in a flower shop.

But she doesn’t laugh at me. Her smile just gets a little bigger, revealing a dimple in her left cheek that should probably be illegal.

“Well, you’ve definitely come to the right place.” She moves out from behind her worktable, and I notice she’s shorter than I expected. Maybe five-foot-four in the worn boots she’s wearing. Delicate, almost fragile-looking.

The thought of anyone putting their hands on her sends an immediate, irrational surge of protectiveness through me.

“Christmas flowers?” she asks, gesturing to the festive displays. “Or something else?”

“Christmas,” I confirm, my voice rougher than usual. I clear my throat. “For my mother.”

It’s not entirely a lie. I do need to send something to my mother in Naples. But that’s not why I’m here.

I’m here because three days ago, I watched this woman from the coffee shop across the street, laughing with a customer while she wrapped their purchase, and I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since.

I’m here because I did something I never do, I asked questions.

Found out her name is Elena Harper. She opened this shop two years ago and she lives in the apartment above it. Also, she’s single.

That last piece of information probably shouldn’t have pleased me as much as it did.

“How wonderful!” She clasps her hands together, and I notice the silver rings on her fingers—one with a moonstone, another with what looks like a tiny pressed flower under glass. “Is she traditional? Modern? What’s her style?”

I think of my mother, who has presided over the De Luca family’s charitable foundation for the past thirty years while tactfully ignoring exactly where the money comes from. Who arranges white roses in crystal vases and attends Mass every Sunday.

“Traditional,” I say. “Elegant. Classic.”

Elena nods thoughtfully, already moving toward a display of deep red roses. “These are gorgeous, obviously. Can’t go wrong with roses at Christmas. But—” She pauses, tilting her head as she studies me. “I’m sensing these might be a little... expected? For your mother?”

I’m not sure what shows on my face, but something makes her grin.

“See, I knew it. She probably gets roses from everyone. Let me show you something special.”

She leads me deeper into the shop, past buckets of carnations and baby’s breath, past tall stems of some purple flower I can’t name. Her presence is like a living thing, all warmth, energy and light. She talks as she walks, her hands gesturing animatedly.

“The thing about Christmas flowers is everyone defaults to red and white, right? Poinsettias, roses, lilies. And don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful. But there’s so much more you can do.” She stops in front of a section I hadn’t even noticed, tucked into a corner near the back. “Like this.”

I look where she’s pointing and actually catch my breath.

The arrangement she’s indicating is breathtaking.

White amaryllis blooms rise from a bed of dark greenery—pine, cedar, something with silver-green leaves I don’t recognize.

Woven through it all are branches of something with small red berries, and the whole thing is accented with touches of gold-painted pine cones, subtle ribbon, a dusting of something that catches the light like snow.

“Amaryllis represents pride and beauty,” Elena says softly, reverently, like she’s sharing a secret.

“But also determination and strength. The white ones specifically symbolize purity and innocence, which feels right for a mother. And I love them for Christmas because they’re elegant without being obvious.

This arrangement has all the classic Christmas elements, the pine, the berries, the gold—but it’s elevated. Sophisticated.”

She looks up at me, those honey-colored eyes searching my face. “Does she sound like someone who would appreciate sophisticated?”

“Yes,” I say, because my mother absolutely would. But also because I think I’d agree to anything right now if it meant Elena kept looking at me like that, like my opinion actually matters.

“Perfect!” She beams, and I feel it like a physical thing as warmth spreads through my chest. “I’ll make this fresh for you. It’ll take me about twenty minutes if you want to browse, or you can wait on the settee. I have hot cider if you’d like some?”

Hot cider. In a flower shop. While Christmas jazz plays in the background.

This is so far removed from my normal existence I might as well be on another planet.

“I’ll wait,” I hear myself say. “Thank you.”

She gives me another one of those smiles, the kind that makes her whole face light up, and practically bounces back to her worktable.

I should sit on the settee like she suggested.

Instead, I find myself drifting closer to where she’s working, watching her hands as she selects stems with a critical eye.

“So,” she says without looking up, her tone conversational, “first time at Petals & Pines?”

“Yes.”

“Well, welcome. I’m Elena, the owner. And you are...?”

I hesitate for a fraction of a second. In my world, names have power. Giving mine to a stranger is rarely wise. But something about the way she asks in a casual, friendly, with no hidden agenda, manner makes me want to tell her.

“Alessandro.”