Chapter Four
Alessandro
There was no going back to Elena’s apartment last night.
By the time the aftermath of the explosion was handled, Greco’s pathetic little message, a blown-up car, two of my men injured but alive, it was three in the morning. She didn’t need me showing up at her door covered in soot, blood, and barely contained rage.
So I sent her a text: Something came up. I’m sorry. Are you okay?
Her response came immediately, like she’d been waiting: I’m fine. Are YOU okay?
Yes. I’ll explain everything. I promise.
I didn’t sleep. Instead, I spent the night in my office, tracking down every piece of information about the attack. Greco is getting bolder, more reckless. The explosion was two blocks from Elena’s shop. Two blocks from where she lives.
Too close.
Marco tried to talk sense into me around four AM. “Boss, you need to walk away from this girl. Greco knows about her now. He has to. Why else would he hit that location?”
“We have three properties within a five-block radius of the explosion,” I pointed out. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means he’s sending you a message. And the message is nothing you care about is safe.”
The problem is, Marco’s right. I should walk away. Ghost her. Let her think I’m just another asshole who kissed her and disappeared.
But I can’t.
Which is how I find myself standing outside Petals & Pines at exactly six PM the next evening, holding a bouquet of roses that’s probably three times larger than it needs to be.
I went overboard. I know I went overboard.
But after last night, leaving her alone and terrified, after putting her in danger just by being near her, I needed to do something grand. Something that shows her how sorry I am. How much I want to make this right.
So, I bought out half a flower wholesaler. Three dozen long-stem red roses, arranged with some kind of feathery green stuff and tied with a silk ribbon. The florist, not Elena, obviously, since that would defeat the purpose, assured me it was “appropriately romantic without being overwhelming.”
Looking at it now, it’s definitely overwhelming.
My car is parked at the curb, the Mercedes, not the SUV I usually use for business. My driver, Paulo, is behind the wheel, waiting patiently. I’m wearing my best suit, Armani, charcoal gray with a black shirt underneath. No tie, because I read somewhere that ties are too formal for dinner dates.
I have reservations at Canlis, the best restaurant in Seattle. Waterfront views, seven courses, wine pairings. I pulled every string I have to get a table on twenty-four hours’ notice.
Marco, who watched me prepare for this evening with increasing horror, told me I look like I’m either closing a hostile merger or attending a funeral.
He might have a point.
The shop door is locked, she closes at six, but I can see movement inside. Elena, cleaning up for the day. My chest does that uncomfortable thing it’s been doing since I met her, like my heart is trying to remember how to feel something other than cold calculation.
I knock.
She looks up, and even through the frosted glass, I can see her smile. That dimple in her left cheek. Those honey-colored eyes that see too much.
She unlocks the door and opens it, and I’m struck all over again by how beautiful she is. She’s wearing jeans and a simple white sweater, her hair in a ponytail. No makeup that I can see. She looks perfect.
And then she sees the roses.
“Oh my God,” she says.
“I wanted to apologize for last night.” I thrust the bouquet toward her. “For leaving so abruptly. For not coming back. For—”
“Alessandro, this is,” She takes the roses, and pauses her eyes wide. “This is a lot of roses.”
“Too much?”
“I mean, it’s definitely a statement.” She buries her face in the blooms, inhaling. When she looks back up, she’s trying not to laugh. “What exactly are you apologizing for? Because this feels like ‘I crashed your car’ levels of apology flowers, not ‘I had to leave during an emergency’ flowers.”
“I wanted to make it up to you.”
“With three dozen roses.”
“Is that too many?”
“There’s no such thing as too many roses when you own a flower shop.” She steps aside, gesturing for me to come in. “Give me one second to put these in water. They’re beautiful, by the way. Excessive, but beautiful.”
I follow her inside, watching as she expertly trims the stems and arranges them in a large vase. Her movements are practiced, efficient. She makes it look easy.
“So,” she says, not looking at me. “Last night was intense.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing. I’m fine. A little shaken up, but fine.” She finishes with the roses and turns to face me. “I’m more worried about you. That explosion was close. And you ran toward it.”
“It was my responsibility.”
“Your responsibility?” She tilts her head, studying me. “Alessandro, what do you really do? And please don’t tell me you import olive oil, because olive oil importers don’t carry guns or run toward explosions.”
This is it. The moment where I should tell her the truth. Where I should explain exactly what kind of man I am and give her the chance to run.
“It’s complicated,” I say instead.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
She sighs, then seems to make a decision. “Okay. You don’t want to talk about it right now, I get it. But eventually, Alessandro, you’re going to have to trust me with the truth. Because I really like you, and I can’t keep dating someone who’s hiding something this big.”
She likes me. The words do something warm and dangerous to my chest.
“I will,” I promise. “I’ll tell you everything. Just, not tonight. Tonight, I want to take you to dinner and try to have a normal date. If you’ll still go with me after I abandoned you last night.”
“Of course I’ll go with you.” She reaches out and touches my arm, and even through the layers of my suit, I feel it like a brand. “But can I just change quickly? I didn’t realize we were doing fancy dinner. I thought maybe pizza or something casual.”
I look down at my suit, then at her jeans and sweater. “You look perfect.”
“Alessandro, you’re wearing Armani. I’m wearing Target. There’s a slight disparity here.”
“I don’t care what you wear.”
“But I do.” She’s already moving toward the stairs. “Give me ten minutes. There’s coffee in the pot if you want some.”
She disappears upstairs before I can protest, leaving me standing in her flower shop surrounded by the smell of roses and pine.
I pull out my phone and text Marco: She thinks I overdid it.
His response is immediate: You THINK? Boss, you look like you’re taking her to meet the Pope, not to dinner.
Too late to change now.
Good luck. You’re going to need it.
I’m starting to think he’s right.
Elena comes back down exactly ten minutes later, and I forget how to breathe.
She’s changed into a black dress that hits just above her knees, simple and elegant. Her hair is down now, falling in waves around her shoulders. She’s added heels that make her legs look endless and a touch of lipstick that makes me want to kiss her until it’s smeared beyond recognition.
“Better?” she asks, doing a little spin.
“You’re stunning,” I manage.
She blushes. “You’re not so bad yourself. Very GQ. Very ‘I own a yacht and make business deals over scotch.’”
“I don’t own a yacht.”
“But you do make business deals over scotch?”
“Sometimes.”
She grabs a small purse and a coat. “Where are we going?”
“Canlis.”
Her eyes widen. “Canlis? Alessandro, that place is impossible to get into. How did you—never mind. Olive oil importing must pay really well.”
If she only knew.
Paulo is waiting by the car when we step outside. He opens the back door with perfect professional courtesy, not meeting my eyes. Smart man.
Elena stops dead when she sees him.
“You have a driver.”
“Yes.”
“You have a driver and a Mercedes and reservations at Canlis.” She looks at me, something between amusement and exasperation on her face. “This is a bit much, don’t you think?”
“I wanted to do this properly.”
“Properly would have been picking me up in your own car and taking me somewhere we could talk without seven forks and a sommelier.”
“There won’t be seven forks. Maybe five.”
“Alessandro.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “I appreciate the gesture, I really do. But I don’t need all this. I only need you.”
The words hit me square in the chest. She doesn’t need the money or the power or the carefully constructed image I’ve spent years building. She just needs me.
The problem is, she doesn’t know what “me” actually entails.
“Get in the car,” I say softly. “Please. Let me do this. Let me try to make up for last night.”
She studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Fine. But next time, we’re getting pizza. In jeans. Like normal people.”
“Deal.”
She slides into the car, and I follow, acutely aware of how close we are in the backseat. I can smell her perfume, it’s something light and floral with a hint of vanilla. It’s intoxicating.
Paulo pulls away from the curb, and I force myself to focus on conversation instead of how much I want to pull her into my lap.
“So,” Elena says, turning to face me. “Tell me more about you. Not work stuff. Real stuff. What’s your favorite movie?”
“I don’t watch many movies.”
“Everyone has a favorite movie.”
“The Godfather.”
She bursts out laughing. “Of course it is. Of course. Let me guess, you can relate to Michael Corleone?”
More than she knows.
“It’s a well-made film,” I say defensively.
“It’s about the mafia, Alessandro. Murder, betrayal and family loyalty taken to criminal extremes.”
“It’s about a man trying to protect what’s his.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Is that what you’re doing? Protecting what’s yours?”
“Always.”
The word hangs between us, loaded with meaning I can’t quite articulate. She doesn’t press, just nods as though she understands something I haven’t said.