Chapter 7 – Viviana
The body forgets, but the mind never does.
I woke tangled in his arms this morning. His hand on my hip, breath warm on the back of my neck. For a second, I thought I’d dreamt the whole thing—the alley, the dock, the kill. But then I shifted and winced. The ache in my thighs reminded me exactly what happened.
Dario touched me like no one else ever has. Not because it was tender—though it was—but because it felt like he gave something away to do it. And I took it.
I let him in. Not just his hands or his mouth. I let him look at me like I was something worth protecting.
That terrifies me more than the knife that nearly split my ribs.
Because now we’re both compromised. And I don't know if what happened was survival, chemistry, or the start of a bond I don’t have the strength to carry.
I haven’t seen him since I left the garage. I told him I had deliveries to make. It was a lie. I needed air. Space. A place that was mine before all of this.
So I came back here.
Torrisi Blooms smells like jasmine and rainwater, just like it always did. But everything’s off now. My shop is no longer safe. My basement is no longer quiet. And I’m no longer just a florist.
I carry a box of preserved eucalyptus down the back stairs and stack it on the middle shelf, next to a vase that’s been collecting dust since Camila’s funeral.
Thunder groans above, deep and slow. Rain spatters the basement windows. The humidity down here is always heavier, as if the walls remember too much. I wipe my palms on my apron, though they’re not damp.
The bell chimes upstairs.
My spine stiffens.
Then I hear the footsteps.
Not rushed. Not casual.
Measured.
Ignazio.
He calls down, “Anyone there?”
I school my voice. “Yeah, in the basement.”
He’s already halfway down before I finish the word.
His face appears under the bulb, bright and framed in shadow. He holds up two coffees in a cardboard tray. “Peace offering.”
I force a smile. “You’re late.”
“Story of my life.”
He reaches the bottom step, glancing around like he’s seeing it all for the first time.
“Didn’t know you kept this place so stocked,” he says.
“I like being ready.”
“For what?”
“Anything.”
I take my cup. His hand brushes mine. Too warm.
He doesn’t move back.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
“Busy.”
He nods slowly. “I heard there was an incident.”
“There are always incidents.”
“Police reports say otherwise.”
I grip the cup tighter. “Must’ve been a quiet week.”
He walks toward the shelf, fingers grazing the glass vases. “You didn’t call me.”
“I didn’t need to.”
“You always call me.”
“Things change.”
His eyes flick to mine, searching. “You’re different.”
I shrug.
He doesn’t.
“Who was he?”
My stomach dips. “Who?”
“The man who left bleeding.”
“Just a thief.”
Ignazio studies me. “Did he take anything?”
“Nothing important.”
His expression tightens. I file it away.
“You’re lying,” he says.
“Then arrest me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“No?” I step around him, slow. Controlled. “Then why are you here?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he walks toward the prep table and sets his coffee down. “You’ve been asking questions.”
“Maybe I’m tired of answers that don’t make sense.”
“Maybe you’re in over your head.”
“Then throw me a rope.”
He turns. “That drop at Dock 7... It wasn’t random.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What makes you think that?”
He steps closer. “Julio Rivas. You processed an order under his alias two years ago.”
I tilt my head. “And you dug that up because…?”
“Because you’re on a list now.”
“And who put me there?”
Ignazio’s mouth opens. Closes.
I wait.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Try again.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Listen to me. You’re not safe.”
“I know.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“No,” I say. “You’re trying to keep me in line.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“By cornering me in my basement?” I gesture around. “By dropping names from a manifest you shouldn’t have access to?”
He swallows. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
His expression shifts. It softens.
And that’s what pisses me off the most.
I don’t want softness now. I want the truth.
“You used to trust me,” he says.
I shake my head. “I used to know who you were.”
“I haven’t changed.”
“Yes, you have.”
I move to pass him. He steps aside.
But not enough.
“You’re not thinking straight,” he says.
“I’m thinking clearer than I ever have.”
“I saw your shop,” he says. “The blood. The damage.”
“You didn’t stop it.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You knew enough to show up now.”
He doesn’t answer.
I walk to the stairs.
He watches me go.
“Be careful who you trust,” he says.
I glance back.
“I am,” I reply.
Then there's a crash. It doesn’t sound like an accident.
It’s heavy. Fast. Splintered glass and metal scraping tile. My front window—smashed in. The sharp clatter that follows is one of the displays flipping hard across the floor.
Ignazio pulls his gun. Doesn’t move.
My heart slams once. Then again.
“That was my window,” I say.
“I heard it.”
“Then go.”
His eyes stay on the stairs.
He doesn’t move. Instead, he says, “Wait.”
That word is too calm. Too timed.
Another footstep overhead. Someone heavy, not rushing. The same bootfall from the alley.
They aren’t hiding anymore.
“Then I'll go,” I say, stepping forward.
Ignazio grips my arm.
He doesn’t squeeze. Just holds. “Just wait one second.”
But I don’t.
I twist out of his hold, grab the bottle of bleach from under the sink, and step toward the stairwell.
The footsteps get louder.
And then he appears, coming down the stairs.
Same build. Same swagger. Black hoodie, half-zipped, boots stained and scuffed. Different face, but I know the type. Knife already in hand, flicked out casually. He scans the room and grins.
“Well, damn,” he says. “She really is down here.”
His eyes drift past me—to Ignazio.
I don’t wait.
I throw the bleach.
The stream arcs and catches him full in the face. He screams, loud and raw, hand flying to his eyes. The knife drops, clattering across the floor.
I grab the florist’s pipe stand from beside the shelf and swing hard.
The steel connects with his ribs. A hard crunch.
He stumbles backward into the shelves. Vases fall, shatter. He roars, grabbing at me. I hit again—shoulder, temple—then duck his grasp.
He lunges. One hand catches my sleeve. I yank free and jam the pipe into his gut. He folds forward.
That’s when Ignazio moves.
He crosses the floor fast, grabs the man by the back of the hood, and slams him into the wall. One arm across his throat, one hand yanking his wrists behind his back.
Gun still drawn.
I stumble back, panting. My shoulder aches. My fingers burn where the pipe rubbed skin raw.
“You’re done,” Ignazio growls.
The man wheezes. Bleach streaks his cheek. His voice is hoarse.
“She was supposed to be alone.”
Ignazio doesn’t flinch.
“Guess you screwed up,” he mutters, dragging him back toward the stairs.
I don’t move.
He cuffs the guy roughly, keeping the pressure on his spine as they reach the steps.
“Where are you taking him?” I ask.
“I’ve got it.”
“No—you don’t get to decide that alone.”
“You want him gone, or not?”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
He stops. His grip on the thug doesn’t loosen. He turns halfway, eyes cold.
“This isn’t the time to fight me.”
“You didn’t even move until I fought him off myself.”
“I was watching for the right opening.”
“No,” I say. “You were watching to see how it played out.”
Ignazio doesn’t deny it.
He pulls the guy up the steps. I follow, stopping at the top landing, fingers clenched around the stair rail.
“You let him walk down here like it was nothing.”
He turns back. “I told you to wait.”
“Because you already knew who he was?”
Ignazio’s jaw works once.
“I’ll handle it,” he says. Then he’s out the front door.
It slams behind him.
I lock it. Twice.
The bleach stings my throat. Makes it hard to think straight.
I stand behind the counter, eyes scanning the glass shards, the scuff marks on the floor.
I spend the next hour picking them up.
Not because I care about the mess. Because I need to feel control again. I need something I can hold.
I scrub the bleach streak off the floor. Wrap the metal pipe in a towel and wedge it behind the register.
Then I sit on the stool behind the counter and stare at the door.
He didn’t shoot.
He had a gun. A clear view. And he didn’t raise it until after I fought.
He didn’t run to shield me. He stood back and watched.
Waited.
Judged.
And when the thug saw him—he smiled.
That wasn’t surprise. That was familiarity.
I sip the cold coffee Ignazio brought. It tastes bitter now. I toss it in the sink.
I run through the fight again in my mind, and what sticks isn’t the adrenaline. It’s the way I didn’t hesitate.
I moved. Hit. Fought.
Dario would’ve acted without asking. No warnings. Just motion and result.
Ignazio stalled.
I remember what Dario said when I told him I’d go to the police.
And if the cop across the desk is already on Caldera’s payroll?
I didn’t want to believe it.
Part of me still hoped he’d lie better. That I could believe him.
I used to think the badge meant something.
Now I think it just hides the knife.