Chapter 3 – Viviana
The shop doesn’t feel the same.
I unlock the door at 8:00 sharp, like always. The bell rings overhead, familiar as breath. Everything looks untouched. Marigolds glow from the front display, snapdragons stand tall in the copper buckets. The register blinks its green light like it trusts me.
But the windows rattle under the wind. Not strong, just sharp. The kind that makes you double-check the lock even when you know it’s secure.
I clean the glass anyway, cloth in one hand, spray in the other. My reflection stares back—same green eyes, same dark hair twisted up and pinned back. Same silver locket nestled against my throat.
Except it’s not the same. Not after last night.
Jazz trickles in through the overhead speakers. Brubeck. I let it run.
By the time I finish wiping the display glass, my fingers have tightened around the cloth. I drop it on the counter and unroll a fresh bundle of stems. Marigolds first. Then snapdragons. Orange, gold, blood red.
Each snip of the shears makes me flinch.
I press my lips together. Focus. Trim. Sort. Repeat.
The thorns don’t draw blood today.
I work slower than usual. That’s fine. No rush. The regulars won’t show for another hour. I’ve built a rhythm over the years—schoolteachers after drop-off, nurses between shifts, grieving husbands who hover and don’t speak.
They all come eventually.
But my hands are trembling.
I stop pretending.
It replays behind my eyes whether I want it to or not. The man with the gun. The body hitting the dock. Dario’s voice—too calm, too sharp. His face lit by red smoke, blood at his boots.
You shouldn’t have come here, Red Thorn.
My apron strings knot too tight. I untie and retie them.
I reach for the delivery slip still sitting behind the counter. Crisp, stained faintly near the edge where my palm caught blood last night.
I should burn it.
Instead, I slide it into the drawer.
The phone sits next to the register.
I stare at it.
Call the cops. That’s what normal people do. That’s what people raised on justice and procedure and consequences do. That’s what Dad would’ve done.
But I didn’t see a name. I didn’t hear one. There’s no camera at the dock. No trace of the man who bled out five feet away. Just fear and the way Dario looked at me like I was already part of it.
I brush a marigold into place, pressing the stem deeper into foam.
The door opens.
Ignazio Hale steps in with the wind behind him. Sharp coat, tighter smile. He always smells like expensive soap and a hint of tobacco he pretends he doesn’t smoke. Clean-cut. Crisp lines. The kind of man who fits too easily anywhere he walks.
“Morning,” he says. “Did I miss the good batch?”
I give him my best version of okay. “You’re early.”
“Bad habit.”
He wanders toward the sunflowers. Doesn’t touch them. He never does. He always leaves with roses—deep burgundy, like bruises pressed into velvet.
“They for your aunt again?” I ask.
He smiles, amused. “Of course. She’s addicted to flowers now. I’m entirely to blame.”
I laugh because that’s what he expects. He’s always polite. Always pays in cash.
And always notices too much.
He looks at me now—really looks.
“You alright?”
I nod. “Fine. Just tired.”
His gaze lingers on the counter. On the drawer, slightly ajar.
Before I can move, he reaches and lifts the slip.
The tips of my fingers twitch.
“Red Thorn.” He reads it slowly. “Huh. That your new supplier?”
I keep my voice steady. “Wrong order. Not mine.”
He flips it over. Blank back. Sets it down slowly. Not in the drawer. On the counter, where it catches light.
“Weird thing to send to a florist,” he says, but he’s not curious—he’s waiting for me to flinch.
“Must’ve been a mix-up,” I reply.
His head tilts, just slightly. The way someone does when they hear the right lie and pretend it’s enough.
“Weird things tend to mean something in this city.”
He steps back toward the door, bouquet of roses in hand. Doesn’t ask for ribbon. Doesn’t ask for a receipt.
At the threshold, he turns.
“You should be careful, Viviana.”
His voice dips just enough to catch.
“Some flowers have thorns.”
The bell rings behind him as he leaves.
The rain comes in sheets now. Grey water slicks the sidewalk out front, and the gutter near the curb is already flooding with dead leaves. Every few minutes the wind shoves at the door like it wants in.
Inside, it’s warm. Not cozy—just functional. The scent of eucalyptus and bruised stems hangs in the air from the orders I finished earlier. The playlist hums along, another instrumental track drifting out of the speakers. I haven’t touched the volume since yesterday.
I’m in the back room, sorting through white peonies for the Moreno wedding. They want soft, romantic, elegant—something that says spring even though Chicago is doing its best impression of November. My apron’s streaked with green, and my knuckles are raw from handling cold buckets.
I line up five stems and press the blooms gently. Three pass. Two are already turning.
The bell above the front door rings.
I don’t react right away.
Then I do. Slowly.
I wipe my hands on a towel and step into the front.
There’s a man standing near the entrance. Hood up. Hands in the pockets of a dark jacket. He’s tall—over six feet, easy. Broad. He’s looking around, not at the flowers, not like a customer. His eyes skim the corners of the shop, the counter, the space behind it.
He doesn’t move like someone who’s here to buy flowers.
“Hi,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Help you find something?”
He looks up. I catch a partial view of his face beneath the hood. Pale skin. Shaved jaw. A faint scar cutting through one of his brows.
“Bathroom,” he says.
“We don’t have one for customers.”
He nods slowly, like he heard but doesn’t really care. He steps deeper into the shop. Past the tulip bar. Past the hanging orchids. Closer to the register.
“Looking for anything specific?” I ask again.
“Just browsing,” he says. His voice is flat. Tired, maybe. Or just uninterested.
But he’s not looking at flowers. He hasn’t touched a single one.
He lingers by the hydrangeas. Then drifts toward the shelf where I keep the order forms, the card holder, the extra receipt paper. He’s scanning the shop like it’s a layout he’s memorizing.
I slide a little behind the work table.
The shears are on my right, half under a cloth napkin. I move them closer, just enough that I could grab them without looking obvious.
“Nice rain, huh?” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
He moves toward the table. Three feet away. Then two.
My stomach knots.
“You local?” I ask. I try to say it like I don’t care about the answer.
His eyes settle too long. He’s not just seeing—I’m being measured.
“I’ve been around.”
His eyes are sharp now. Focusing. His lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile.
He steps closer. I match his movement with one of my own, small, just enough to keep the table between us.
“This place yours?” he asks.
I nod once.
He lifts his gaze over my shoulder. To the workbench. The drawers. The stack of flower slips beside the till.
Then he says it.
“Red Thorn.”
Everything inside me freezes.
He waits. Watches.
“I don’t know what that is,” I say, flat. Too fast.
“No?” He cocks his head.
I grip the edge of the table. My other hand hovers near the shears.
He steps around the corner.
“You should’ve stayed home,” he says.
I don’t think. I react.
My hand closes around the shears and I swing.
The blade slices into his forearm, deep. Blood spills fast. He yells, stumbles back. Lets go.
I breathe once and drive my knee up into his groin.
He folds with a curse, grabbing at his side. I shove him toward the stacked buckets near the hydrangeas. They crash to the floor, metal clanging and rolling across the tile.
He crashes into the counter, gasping, staggering to stay upright. Blood trails from his sleeve, dripping onto the floor.
“You fucking—”
He doesn’t finish. He stumbles toward the door. Fumbles with the handle, slams it open.
Rain blasts in as he disappears into the street.
I run and throw the lock. Twist it hard. My fingers shake.
The shop is dead quiet now except for the music still humming in the background.
I turn and press my back to the door.
My heart is a drum in my ears.
There’s blood on the floor. On my apron. On the towel I used to wipe my hands earlier. I blink and realize I still have the shears in my hand.
I set them down.
Step back.
The floor is a mess—flowers, water, blood. The buckets are still rocking. My nerves are, too.
I stare at the trail of red. At the print of his boot smeared on the floor. I can smell metal and cold sweat.
I breathe again, finally.
The first breath hurts. The second one’s worse.
I grab a rag, dampen it, kneel and wipe the blood without thinking. One swipe. Two. My hands don’t feel like mine.
This place used to be safe.
Now I’m mopping up blood with a towel that still smells like rosemary and floral wrap.
I get back on my heels.
I didn’t freeze.
I fought him off.
But it wasn’t just random. He said Red Thorn. Same words on that slip. Same words that brought me to that dock.
He came for me.
Not the shop. Not a robbery.
Me.
I push to my feet and stumble into the back room. My phone is on the back shelf. I grab it. Stare at the screen.
Call the cops?
What do I even say?
He didn’t take anything. He didn’t leave a name. Just a cut and a warning I can’t explain.
They’ll ask why someone came after me.
They’ll want to know what Red Thorn means.
And I don’t know. Not really.
But there’s someone who does.
Dario.
His face hits me like a flash—his voice in the cold, his hands bloody, the way he stood over a body like he’d done it a hundred times before.
I didn’t ask him questions that night. I ran.
Now I don’t have that luxury.