Chapter Eleven
Elena
The apartment above Petals & Pines feels emptier than it should.
It’s been three days since I walked out of Alessandro’s penthouse. Three days since discovering my name in the Seattle Times was linked to organized crime. Three days since realizing the man who claimed to love me had destroyed my life without even blinking or a warning.
The shop has been slow, customers suddenly remembering they have other florists, other options, anywhere that isn’t associated with “The Shadow.” My phone has blown up with messages from concerned friends, nosy reporters, and one very persistent FBI agent who wants to “just chat.”
I haven’t answered any of them.
The black roses sitting on my counter mock me with their thorny perfection. I sent them to Alessandro three days ago as a final message. Done. Finished. Over.
So why does every part of me ache like something vital has been ripped away?
“Stupid,” the word is muttered while arranging a bouquet for one of the few remaining loyal customers. “Stupid to fall for him. Stupid to think it could work. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
The shop bell chimes.
“We’re closing early today,” the announcement comes without looking up. “Sorry, but—”
“Elena Harper?”
The voice is unfamiliar, male, with an accent that’s definitely not local. Looking up reveals three men in the shop, all wearing dark jackets and expressions that make every instinct scream danger.
“Can I help you?” The pruning shears get gripped tighter, though what good they’d do against three grown men is questionable.
“You can come with us quietly.” The speaker is tall, scarred, with dead eyes that have seen too much violence. “Our boss wants to have a conversation.”
“Your boss can make an appointment like everyone else.” Keeping voice steady takes effort. “Now, get out of my shop.”
“See, that’s the thing.” He takes a step forward, and the other two fan out. “It’s not really a request.”
The back room is maybe ten feet away. The panic button Alessandro insisted on installing, the one I swore I would never be use, is back there, hidden under the worktable.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Another step back, trying to calculate distance, angles, chances. “Leave now or I’m calling the police.”
“The police?” The man laughs. “Sweetheart, the police aren’t going to help you. Not when you’re De Luca’s whore.”
The word hits like a slap. “Get out.”
“Make us.”
They move fast, faster than I expected. One grabs for my arm. The pruning shears swing wildly, catching him across the face. He screams, blood spraying, and for a second there’s hope—
Then the second man has me, arm around my throat, lifting me off my feet. The shears clatter to the floor. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Can’t—
The front window explodes.
Not from inside. From outside. Someone shooting—
Alessandro’s men. The ones he said would watch the shop. Two of them bursting through the shattered glass, guns drawn, shouting commands—
The world becomes violence.
Gunfire, so loud and deafening in the enclosed space. The man holding me uses my body as a shield. Hot blood sprays across my face, not mine, someone else’s. One of Alessandro’s men goes down, the back of his head—
God. Oh God. There’s brain matter on the wall. Gray and red and—
Vomit rises but gets swallowed down. I can’t be sick. I can’t freeze. I have to move.
Another of Alessandro’s men falls, chest blooming red. He’s still alive, gasping, trying to reach his weapon. The scarred man walks over calmly and shoots him point-blank in the face.
The sound is wet, final, horrible and will haunt dreams forever.
“Get her in the van!” The scarred man is already moving, and the one holding me drags backward toward the door. “Now!”
Outside, a white van waits with doors open. Struggling, fighting, trying to scream, but his arm is crushing the air from my throat. Black spots dance across vision.
“Stop fighting, bitch.” His breath is hot against my ear. “Save your energy. You’re going to need it for what comes next.”
He throws me into the van. I hit the metal floor hard, pain exploding through shoulder and hip. Before recovery is possible, they’re climbing in, all three of them, pulling the doors shut, the van is already moving.
“Drive!” The scarred man shouts toward the front. “De Luca’s men will be swarming this area in minutes.”
Hands grab me, yanking me up, slamming me against the van wall. Zip ties bite into wrists, securing them behind my back. Another tie around ankles. They’re efficient, practiced.
This isn’t their first kidnapping.
“Please.” The word comes out hoarse, terrified. “Please, I don’t know anything. I can’t help you—”
“We don’t need your help.” The scarred man crouches in front of me, and his smile is all teeth and malice. “We just need De Luca to know we have you. Need him to understand what happens when you disrespect the Russo family.”
Russo family. The rival organization. Greco’s people.
“He won’t care.” The lie comes desperately. “We’re not together anymore. I kicked him out. He doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t what? Care about you?” The man laughs. “Sweetheart, he’s had guards on your shop twenty-four seven since you left. Has your apartment bugged. Tracks your every move. The man’s obsessed.” His hand reaches out, grabbing my face roughly. “Which means you’re valuable. Means we can use you.”
“Use me how?” But the answer is already visible in their eyes, in the way they’re looking at me, in the hunger mixing with violence.
“Well.” The second man who is younger, with a spider tattoo on his neck, grins. “Boss said not to kill you. Didn’t say nothing about having some fun first.”
Terror, pure and primal, floods every nerve. “No. No, please—”
“What do you think, Bruno?” Spider tattoo looks at the scarred man. “De Luca’s girl. Bet she’s a good fuck if he’s this obsessed.”
“I think—” The scarred man’s smile widens. “I think De Luca needs to learn a lesson about respect. And what better way than sending him back his girl all used up?”
“Please.” Tears are streaming now, I can’t stop them. “Please don’t, I’ll do anything—”
“You’re going to do anything anyway.” His hand slides down, gripping my throat. “Question is whether you fight and make it worse, or submit and maybe we’ll be gentle.”
They won’t be gentle. I can see it in their eyes, in the way they’re already reaching for belts, in the anticipation making them careless—
The van swerves violently.
Everyone stumbles, thrown off balance. Gunfire erupts from somewhere outside, the distinctive crack of assault rifles.
“What the fuck—” The scarred man scrambles toward the front. “What’s happening?”
“It’s De Luca!” The driver’s voice is panicked. “He found us, he’s, oh Christ—”
The driver’s window explodes. Blood sprays forward. The van careens wildly, tires screaming, and then it impacts hard, slamming everyone against the walls.
Everything stops.
For a moment, silence. Then the back doors rip open, literally rip, the metal screaming as they’re torn from hinges and Alessandro stands silhouetted against the winter sunlight.
But this isn’t the Alessandro from the penthouse, or the flower shop, or even the man covered in blood three nights ago.
This is The Shadow.
His face is absolutely blank, no rage, no fear, nothing human in his expression. In one hand is a gun. In the other, a knife that gleams with fresh blood.
“Mine.” The word comes out soft, deadly. “She’s mine.”
He moves like death itself.
The third man, the one who hadn’t spoken, reaches for his weapon. Alessandro’s gun barks once. The man’s head snaps back, eyes going vacant, body crumpling.
Spider tattoo lunges with a knife. Alessandro disarms him in two moves by grabbing his wrist and twisting, the wet crack of breaking bone fills the van.
The knife transfers to Alessandro’s hand and buries itself in the man’s throat.
Blood sprays, hot and arterial. The spider tattoo gurgles, clutching uselessly at his neck, and Alessandro just watches him fall with those dead, emotionless eyes.
The scarred man, Bruno, has his gun out now, pointed at Alessandro. “One more step and I blow your head off, De Luca.”
“You can try.” Alessandro doesn’t stop moving. “But you’ll be dead before the bullet leaves the chamber. Your choice.”
“I’ve got your girl.” Bruno shifts, pressing the gun to my temple. Cold metal against skin makes everything sharper. “Drop your weapons or she dies.”
Alessandro’s eyes finally focus on me. For a second, just a second, something human flickers there. Fear. Rage. Pain.
Then it’s gone, replaced by a terrible emptiness.
“You touch her,” Alessandro says conversationally, “and I will spend the rest of your very short life making you beg for death. I will peel the skin from your bones. I will keep you alive while I feed you your own organs. I will make you watch as I destroy everything and everyone you’ve ever cared about before I finally let you die. ”
Bruno’s hand trembles slightly. “Big talk for a man whose girl is about to get her brains splattered—”
Alessandro’s gun rises and fires.
The bullet takes Bruno in the shoulder, the one holding the gun to my head. His arm jerks back, weapon clattering. He screams, stumbling, trying to regain his weapon—
Alessandro is on him.
What happens next will live in nightmares forever.
Alessandro’s knife finds Bruno’s stomach. Once. Twice. Three times. Each thrust is precise, clinical, designed to cause maximum pain without quick death. Bruno’s screams turn to gurgles as blood fills his lungs.
“You threatened what’s mine.” Alessandro’s voice is still conversational despite the violence. “You put your hands on her. You thought about raping her.”
The knife finds Marco’s groin. The scream that follows isn’t human.
“This is what happens.” Another stab, this one to the thigh, the femoral artery opening in a spray of red. “This is what I do to men who touch what belongs to me.”