Chapter Seven
Elena
Morning sunlight streams through the windows of Petals & Pines, catching on the dust motes and turning them into tiny dancers.
The coffee maker gurgles in the back room, filling the shop with the rich aroma of dark roast. Christmas music plays softly, Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases, and everything feels peaceful. Normal.
Which should have been my first warning.
Glass explodes inward in a glittering shower, and the sound, God, the sound is deafening. Shelves rattle. Vases tip over. My Christmas tree shudders, ornaments swinging wildly.
For a second, shock freezes me in place. Then training kicks in, not the kind of training normal florists have, but the kind you develop after being shot at in a Christmas market. Drop. Cover. Assess.
Crouched behind my worktable, heart hammering so hard it might crack my ribs, the shop is surveyed. Glass everywhere. Cold December air pouring through the jagged hole. And on the floor, amid the scattered flowers and broken pottery, sits a brick wrapped in paper.
No. No, no, no.
Hands shake as I reach for the brick and unfold the paper. The message is brief, written in blocky letters with what looks like a red marker:
LEAVE THE SHADOW OR THE NEXT ONE WON’T MISS
The Shadow. Alessandro’s nickname. The one whispered in certain circles, the one that makes grown men nervous.
Which means this isn’t random vandalism. This is a message. For me. About him.
The brick slips from numb fingers, clattering to the floor. My shop, my sanctuary, the thing built with bare hands and dreams and Nonna’s memory has been violated. Because of him. Because of whatever war he’s fighting, whatever enemies he’s made.
Because loving him makes me a target.
With trembling fingers, I yank my phone from my back pocket and pull up Alessandro’s name without thinking. But before I can hit call, the shop door opens.
Correction, what’s left of the door opens. The brick took out most of the glass, and now a man steps through, tall, dark jacket, cold eyes that scan the destruction with professional interest.
“Elena Harper?” His voice is flat, emotionless.
Every instinct screams danger. “Get out.”
“Boss wants to have a conversation.” He takes a step forward, glass crunching under his boots.
“I said get out!” The pruning shears are grabbed from my worktable, not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. “Now, or I’m calling the police.”
“You could do that.” Another step. “But then you’d have to explain why someone’s threatening you over your boyfriend’s business dealings. Lots of uncomfortable questions. Lots of attention on Mr. De Luca. Don’t think he’d appreciate that.”
He’s right. Police mean investigations, investigations mean scrutiny, scrutiny means Alessandro’s world gets exposed. And if the movies have taught me anything, exposing a mafia boss doesn’t end well for anyone.
“What do you want?”
“Told you. Boss wants to talk.” He’s maybe ten feet away now, close enough to see the scar running along his jaw. “You can come easy, or we can make it hard. Your choice.”
My phone is still clutched in one hand, shears in the other. Fight or flight instincts war with each other. Do I run, scream, stab him with the shears and deal with consequences later? Or go with him?
But before a decision can be made, a voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
“Touch her and you’re dead.”
Alessandro.
He’s standing in the doorway or what remains of it, dressed in black, his coat open enough to show the gun at his side. His face is absolutely expressionless, but his eyes are filled with murder.
The man in the dark jacket goes very still. “De Luca.”
“You have three seconds to walk away.” Alessandro’s voice is soft, deadly. “One.”
“Boss said—”
“Two.”
“Look, we’re just supposed to deliver a message—”
“Three.”
What happens next occurs too fast to process. Alessandro moves, a blur of motion, and suddenly the man is on the ground, Alessandro’s knee on his chest, gun pressed to his temple.
“Who sent you?” The question is casual, like he’s asking about the weather.
“I don’t—”
The gun presses harder. “Wrong answer. Who. Sent. You.”
“Greco! Jesus, it was Greco! He just wanted to scare her, make her leave you—”
“Congratulations. You’ve delivered your message.
” Alessandro stands, hauling the man up by his collar.
“Now you’re going to deliver mine. You tell Greco that if anyone—anyone—comes near this shop again, near Elena again, I will personally dismantle his entire organization.
I will take everything he has and burn it to ash.
His men, his money, his family. All of it. Am I clear?”
“Y-yes. Crystal.”
“Good.” Alessandro releases him, and the man stumbles toward the door. “And tell him The Shadow says hello.”
The man runs. Literally runs down the street like hell itself is chasing him.
Which leaves Alessandro and me alone in my destroyed shop, glass crunching underfoot, cold air streaming through the broken window, the brick with its threatening message lying on the floor between us.
“Are you hurt?” He’s already crossing to me, hands reaching out to check for injuries. “Did he touch you? Did anyone else come in?”
“No, no one else. Just him and the brick and—” The words tumble out in a rush. “Alessandro, what the hell is happening? Who was that? What did he mean about leaving you?”
His hands still on my arms. “We should talk.”
“We’re past talking! Someone just threw a brick through my window and threatened me because of you!” The volume rises despite attempts to stay calm. “And you show up like some kind of avenging angel with a gun and death threats and how did you even get here so fast?”
“I had men watching the shop.”
“You had—” The words die in my throat. “You’ve been watching me?”
“Protecting you. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I’m standing, it feels an awful lot like surveillance!” Hands rake through hair, leaving it disheveled. “God, I knew you were dangerous. I knew you weren’t just an importer. But this? Men with guns, threats, people watching my shop?”
“Elena—”
“Don’t. Just—don’t.” Distance is needed, space to think without those dark eyes making everything fuzzy. But there’s nowhere to go in the small shop, and glass is everywhere, and the cold air keeps pouring through the broken window like a physical reminder that nothing is safe anymore.
Alessandro’s jaw works. “Pack a bag.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pack a bag. You’re staying with me until this is resolved.”
“Like hell I am!”
“This isn’t a request.” His voice drops into that tone, the one that probably makes his men scramble to obey. “Greco knows where you live, where you work. He’s already made one move. He’ll make another.”
“So what, I’m supposed to just abandon my shop? My life? Move in with you because some mobster has a grudge?”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of it, the absolute certainty in that one word, is infuriating. “You can’t just order me around, Alessandro.”
“I can when it’s your safety at stake.” He moves closer, and despite everything, my traitorous body responds to his proximity.
“Please. I know you’re angry. You have every right to be.
But right now, I need you somewhere I can protect you.
Somewhere with security and backup and no giant windows that bricks can come through. ”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across the bone. “I can’t, Elena, if something happened to you because of me, I wouldn’t survive it.”
The raw honesty in his voice cracks something in my chest. Here stands a man who probably kills people for a living, who carries a gun like it’s a wallet, who just threatened to dismantle an entire organization and he’s looking at me like I’m the most fragile, precious thing in the world.
“One condition,” the words come out softer than intended.
“Anything.”
“You tell me everything. No more secrets, no more lies. I want to know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
He hesitates, and for a moment the possibility exists he’ll refuse. Then: “Everything. I promise.”
“Okay.” A shaky breath escapes. “Okay. Let me get some things.”
Alessandro’s penthouse is exactly what I predicted, all glass and steel and expensive minimalist furniture that looks like it’s never been used.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer panoramic views of the city.
The kitchen gleams with stainless steel appliances.
The living room could fit my entire apartment twice over.
And there’s not a plant in sight.
“Guest room is down the hall,” Alessandro says, setting down the hastily packed overnight bag. “Ensuite bathroom, walk-in closet. Make yourself at home.”
“This place doesn’t look like anyone’s ever made themselves at home here.” The observation comes out before it can be stopped.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “That obvious?”
“It looks like a hotel suite. Beautiful, but completely impersonal.” A hand waves at the generic modern art on the walls, the lack of photographs, the absolute absence of anything that indicates a human being actually lives here. “Do you even sleep here?”
“Sometimes. When I’m not at the office.” He shrugs off his coat, and the gun holster is suddenly very visible against his black shirt. “I’m not here much.”
“Because you’re too busy running your criminal empire?”
The words come out more bitter than intended, and Alessandro’s expression shutters. “I told you I’d explain everything. Let me get the window situation handled at your shop first, then we’ll talk. Deal?”
“Fine. But Alessandro?” He turns back at the door. “Thank you. For coming so fast. For—for being there.”
Something soft crosses his face. “Always, tesoro.”