Chapter 5 – Viviana
The deadbolt slides into place. I test it twice—out of habit, not trust.
The shop’s gone quiet behind me. Shadows stretch across the floor, wrapping around empty vases and forgotten petals. The scent of freesia still lingers, but even that feels thin now. Faked peace.
I hook my apron over the stool and grab the trash bag. It’s heavier than usual. Too many stems, too many pieces of the day I’d rather forget.
The alley’s colder than it should be. Wind slips beneath my collar like a warning. The security light overhead flutters, then dims into a sickly orange. A rusted dumpster crouches crooked in the back corner, slick with sleet.
I cross the wet pavement and heave the bag into it. Something inside breaks. Maybe glass. The crash is loud. Too loud.
Behind me, footsteps.
Not hurried. Not rushed. Steady. Two pairs.
I straighten slowly and turn.
Two men stand at the mouth of the alley. One leans against the wall like he’s settling in for a long conversation. The other blocks the exit entirely. Both are clean, pressed, too still.
Not muggers. Not random.
“Evening,” the tall one says with a faint smile. His voice scrapes like gravel.
I don’t respond. I look down at his shoes—black leather, scuffed but polished. Imported.
“You always take out the trash yourself?” he asks, taking a step forward.
I tighten my grip on the edge of the dumpster but say nothing.
The shorter one pulls something from his coat. It catches the alley light—thin, sharp. A knife.
“You don’t remember us?” the tall one asks. “That’s cold.”
His partner chuckles and adds, “We saw you at the docks. You had that pretty little card in your hand.”
He’s still moving. A slow arc around me.
“Red Thorn,” the shorter one says, as if it’s a punchline.
I bolt left, aiming for the narrow gap beside the dumpster. A hand snags my elbow before I’m two steps in.
I ram my elbow back, catch a gut. He grunts, but doesn’t let go. My other hand rakes at his cheek. He swears and recoils.
Then the tall one grabs me from behind, wraps an arm around my neck. Not tight enough to choke—just to trap.
I stomp down on his foot. His grip loosens.
I twist, free—but only for a second.
The shorter one lunges again. Grabs my hair. Yanks hard.
My head snaps back and slams into the brick.
Everything blurs.
The wall scrapes my shoulder as I fall. My knees hit the pavement. I taste metal. Try to crawl.
A boot slams into my ribs. I hit the bricks again.
Pain sears through me.
“Stay down,” the tall one mutters, pulling a blade from his coat.
He crouches beside me, presses the flat of it against my cheek.
“Corradino says hi,” he breathes. His breath smells like smoke and something sweet. I gag.
“Hold her,” he tells the other. “We’ll make it quick.”
He raises the blade. Then he disappears.
No warning. No sound. Just a blur and then his body crashes against the wall. The knife clatters beside him.
His partner barely turns before Dario’s there.
Black coat, fists moving fast—clinical. A punch to the gut, a twist of the wrist. Bone snaps. A knee drives into the man's chest. His back hits the brick with a thud. Dario slams his head once. Twice.
Blood spatters the bricks beside me.
The man drops.
Both are down. Neither moves.
I’m frozen against the wall, lungs burning, ribs throbbing. My palms sting—slick with blood from where I caught myself on the pavement.
Dario looks at me. His expression doesn’t change.
“That’s twice I’ve saved your life,” he says, voice low.
I press one hand to my side. Breathing’s harder now—tight, shallow. Not broken, but close.
“That doesn’t mean I owe you anything,” I reply, hoarse.
He steps toward me, eyes narrowing. “You’re bleeding.”
I glance down. My right palm’s sliced open. I must’ve hit a shard or a nail on the fall.
“Let me see,” he says.
“No,” I say quickly.
He doesn’t press. Just watches.
I grip the wound and force a breath in.
Dario kneels by the first man, checks his pulse. “He’s alive,” he mutters. “Barely.”
He wipes the knife on the man’s coat and slides it into his own.
Then he looks up. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
I glare at him. “I was taking out the trash.”
He glances at the back door of the shop, then back at me. “They weren’t here for the shop. They were here for you.”
“Why?” I ask, pushing off the wall. “What did I do?”
“You showed up,” he says.
“That’s it?”
“You walked into the wrong shadow. And now Corradino’s paying attention.”
I laugh again, bitter. “Then make him stop.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
I stalk toward him. “So what now? Do I disappear? Close the shop? Change my name?”
“You come with me,” he says, voice steady.
“No,” I snap. “I’m not yours to protect.”
“You are,” he says, “if they think you’re mine.”
The words hit too hard. I stare at him, chest rising too fast.
“Why do you care?” I whisper.
He pauses. “Because I don’t want to see you bleed again.”
“Then stop getting me involved,” I say.
“I didn’t drag you into this,” he replies. “Corradino did.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I walked into that dock. I stayed too long. I didn’t run. That’s what did it.”
He takes a step forward, close enough that I can feel the warmth rolling off his chest.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says quietly.
I believe him.
“I’ve seen you kill, Dario,” I murmur. “Like it means nothing.”
“It means something,” he says.
“What?”
His mouth is a grim line. “It means I get to walk away. They don’t.”
I glance down at the blood on my boots.
“It keeps happening,” I whisper.
“What does?” he asks.
“This,” I say. “Every time, it’s the same. Hands shaking. Back to the wall. Someone reaching for the kill.”
He watches me for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he lifts his hand. Doesn’t touch me—just waits.
I let him.
His fingers brush the side of my cheek. I lean in, just slightly. His touch is careful, like I’ll vanish.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“No shit,” I whisper.
He lets his hand drop, but doesn’t back away.
“I’ve got a car nearby,” he says.
“And if I don’t come?” I ask.
“I stay,” he replies.
“That’s not helpful,” I mutter.
“It’s not meant to be.”
I wipe at my face. “So you’re my shadow now?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“And after you save me again?” I ask.
He meets my eyes. “After that, we shall see.”
Dario hasn’t spoken since we left the alley. He drives like he thinks ahead of the street. Like the city bends for him. Every turn is smooth. Efficient. Not a second wasted.
He pulls the car into a side alley beside what looks like a condemned garage. A faded sign above the shutter reads Ramon’s Tires in chipped red paint.
He cuts the ignition. The silence isn’t quiet—it buzzes in my head.
“You live here?” I ask, my voice low.
“No,” he says. “But it’s safe.”
“From who?”
He opens his door. “Everyone.”
I get out slowly, cradling my palm, now wrapped in gauze. The wind bites through my jacket. Dario’s already at the rusted door of the garage, punching in a code on a metal box mounted beside it. The lock releases with a metallic clack.
Inside smells like old oil and colder plans. A cot sits in the corner, rumpled but unused. A folding table holds a burner phone, a Glock, a box of latex gloves, and half a bottle of whiskey. The floor is concrete, cracked. The windows are painted over from the inside.
I hover just inside the doorway.
“You’ve done this before,” I say.
Dario glances at me. “Done what?”
“This. Hideouts. Safehouses. Secrecy.”
“I’m good at it,” he replies, deadpan.
“You’re terrifying,” I say.
He doesn’t smile. “That’s why I’m alive.”
He grabs the bottle from the table, pours two fingers into a chipped mug, then sets it down in front of me.
“For the shock,” he says.
“I’m not in shock,” I reply.
He watches me. “You’re pale. You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“Right.”
I lift the mug. The whiskey bites down my throat, harsher than I expect. It hits my chest like a match to a soaked log—slow to catch, then smoldering deep.
I set it down. “Now what?”
Dario leans against the edge of the table. “Now I tell you why you’re still breathing.”
“Because you dropped two men in an alley?”
“They weren’t the first.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I say, stepping closer.
“It’s not meant to be,” he replies.
I stop two feet from him. “Start talking.”
He folds his arms, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You were never supposed to get that envelope. It was marked for someone inside Caldera’s supply chain. One of mine. Your courier screwed up.”
“Then I’m just an accident.”
“A very public one,” he says. “You walked into a drop point with eyes on it. Corradino was already watching. Your name is now part of a conversation you were never meant to hear.”
“And now he thinks I’m one of you?” I ask.
He nods. “Or someone’s asset.”
“I’m not anyone’s asset,” I say firmly.
“You are if they believe you are,” he says.
I start pacing. “So you’re telling me I’m a florist who accidentally walked into a criminal operation and now has a hit on her head.”
“Yes.”
“I should go to the police.”
Dario doesn’t flinch. “And if the cop across the desk is already on Caldera’s payroll?”
I freeze.
He watches me closely. “What if the one who walks into your shop every Thursday in a pressed coat, orders peonies, and smiles like he’s harmless—what if he is?”
I do a double take. “Ignazio?”
Dario shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s him. But you had to think it before I said it.”
I don’t answer.
He steps forward. “You need to understand—Caldera isn’t a gang. It’s a city beneath the city. It has doctors. Lawyers. Cops. Bankers. You don’t call 911 to fight Caldera. You get swallowed.”
“So what then?” I ask. “What are you offering me?”
He tilts his head. “Not much. Just survival.”
I scoff. “Protection?”
“For now.”
“No partnership? No warm welcome into the underworld?”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “Hard pass.”
“Then what do you want from me?” I demand.
“Nothing,” he says. “I want to keep you alive long enough to untangle the mess you fell into. After that—you go your way.”
“And if I don’t want your help?”
“Then you’ll be dead before morning.”
I stare at him. “You said that already.”
“It doesn’t make it less true,” he says.
I drop into the metal chair beside the table, exhaling hard.
He watches me. “I don’t need you to trust me.”
“Good,” I mutter.
“Just don’t run,” he says. “You won’t get far.”
“You’re very comforting,” I reply, voice flat.
“I’ve been told that before,” he says.
I glance at the burner phone. “So what now?”
“We stay off grid for tonight. Tomorrow, I move you somewhere less exposed.”
“Witness protection, mafia edition?”
He smirks—just a flash. “Something like that.”
He pours another drink, but doesn’t hand it over.
I stare at his hands. They’re steady. Scarred. Cleaned of blood, but not of violence. They flex once, then still.
I stand again. He doesn’t move.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, softer this time.
His voice lowers. “Because the look in your eyes that night at the dock—it stuck.”
I step closer. “Why?”
“Because you didn’t look away,” he says. “Even when you should have.”
We’re too close now. I can feel the heat of him, the sharp contrast between the cold room and the space between us. His hand lifts—only slightly—then stops.
I feel my own breath catch.
He reaches toward my face.
I don't pull away.
But he doesn’t touch me.
His hand hovers, then drops.
“You should rest,” he says, stepping back.
“And if I can’t?”
He exhales. “Then don’t sleep. But don’t leave.”
“I don’t trust you,” I say again.
He nods once. “That’s smart.”
I turn away, move to the cot in the corner, and sit. The cushion sinks under me. I fold my arms across my chest.
Dario pulls a chair up beside the table and sits, facing the door.
Like he’s expecting it to open.
Like he always is.
We don’t speak for a long time.
But we don’t look away from each other either.