Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Hannah
Hannah Munn, Florist to the mob.
That’s me.
Say what you will about the mafia, but there are a few perks to having your business in their building. One is the regular customers—which I desperately need.
My shop, Garden of Eden, is a place that allows the sins of the mafia to grow.
And if I don’t sell five more bouquets by the time I close tonight, I won’t be able to make my payment to the don.
And the simmering anxiety that brings would be the downside to being owned by the mafia.
“I need two bouquets. A big one for my wife, and?—”
“And a smaller one for the girlfriend,” I finish for Lorenzo, the cheating bastard.
It’s the same every week. “Some beautiful lavender roses came in yesterday. I made you a stunning bouquet for the wife.” I walk to the cooler and pull out the arrangement—a dozen fat lavender roses with pink and purple freesia and greens.
Because I believe flowers mean something, I put a lot of effort into Lorenzo’s wife’s bouquets.
Like, if I get the arrangement right, if I really wow her, it will make up for her husband’s infidelity.
Although maybe she’s off with her own side piece—what do I know?
She could have some hot pool boy or sexy yoga teacher licking her from toes to clit right now.
I shouldn’t care about someone I know nothing about, and yet I do.
I take on other’s emotions to a crippling degree sometimes. Always a people pleaser.
“And this one is for the girl du jour .” I hand him a bouquet of brightly colored gerbera daisies.
Lorenzo cocks a half-smile like he’s not sure what du jour means. Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m being disrespectful. Hope not. I flash a bright smile to assure him I’m trying for cute.
I head back to the cash register and ring him up. Lorenzo’s been coming here since before Mary Alice hired me as an apprentice ten years ago when I was just a teenager.
Every Friday, he and a half dozen of the Pachino men go see Rocco, the barber next door, for a straight razor shave, then hit Garden of Eden to get blooms for their ladies.
Another crew comes through on Thursdays.
And the older, retired generation usually stops in on Saturdays.
One thing about these mafia men I’ve noticed is they like their structure and routine.
“Keep the change, doll.” All these years, and he never bothered to learn my name. Or if he has, he never uses it. He pushes the six dollars and coins back across the counter. “It’s your hush money.” He winks. Same joke, every time. Every. Single. Time.
“Thank you, Lorenzo.” I drop the money back in the till. Lord knows I’ll need it to cover the checks I’ve already written that may already be bouncing me straight to bankruptcy. Or worse, getting my kneecaps busted by one of the very same customers I’m giving thanks for.
“You heard from Mary Alice?”
I smile, indulgently. I suspect Mary Alice was Lorenzo’s girl du jour a few times over the years, but my former boss would never tell. Florists are excellent secret-keepers.
“Yeah.” I spin one of the roses in his bouquet to set it at a better angle.
“She texts photos of her grandbaby pretty much every day. She’s in seventh heaven out there.
” Mary Alice moved to Green Bay when her daughter had a baby last year, forcing me to choose between continuing my studies to become a nurse like my mom or buying the business from her.
My parents definitely think I made the wrong choice. They don’t say that outright—they’re more the type to let me make my own mistakes, but I sense their worry every time the topic comes up.
I’m starting to wonder if I made a mistake too.
“Well, you tell her I said hello.” He tucks the two bouquets under his arm and pushes his wallet back into his pocket.
“I’ll do that. Have a great weekend.”
He starts to leave then turns back. “Everything okay around here? Anybody bothering you?”
I shoot a glance at Josie, my BFF-slash-slacker employee who’s putting a chrysanthemum arrangement in the cooler. She smirks because we just had this conversation. These guys like to play hero.
“Everything’s fine. But thanks for asking.
” My smile is genuine because as much as I like to roll my eyes and snark about my customers, I’m secretly fond of them.
Probably because when I was fifteen, their five-dollar tips made me feel rich.
And the romantic florist in me still appreciates their chivalry.
I like the safety of being on their watch. Knowing if something did go wrong—if I got held up or I had a stalker situation—I’d know exactly who to see to exact justice.
Lorenzo tips an invisible hat and leaves, and Josie snorts. “You’re right.”
I laugh. “Did I not tell you? At least one of them will offer to slay dragons for me every week. It’s kind of endearing.”
“Of course.” Josie nearly knocks an arrangement over as she pushes vases around on the cooler shelf. “The idea of roughing up some asshole for the pretty, defenseless florist gets them hard.”
“Mmm hmm. Cute, right?”
“Yeah, I guess you can’t complain about having your own private security team. And at least he wasn’t creepy about it. One dumbass yesterday bought flowers and then pulled out a rose and gave it to me. I was like, dude, if you’re going to ask for my number at least give me the whole bouquet.”
I snort. “Yeah, they’re players.” When I was in high school, I used to get all fluttery and nervous when the younger guys came in, thinking one might ask me out.
I had this whole mafia-guy crush. They exuded confidence and power.
They flashed their money, and they had swagger.
I wasn’t naive enough to believe all the bluster, but it turned me on just the same. My secret fantasy.
But while they flirted up a storm with Mary Alice, they were only polite with me. I don’t know, maybe they don’t date Black women. Or maybe I was just a kid in their eyes and forever would be.
“Well, maybe not all of them, but at least half are players,” I amend.
Josie comes over and leans her elbows on the counter. Her gold hoop earrings swing. They’re giant—big enough to balance her poofy blonde curls.
Anxiety coils in the pit of my stomach as we get physically close to each other. It happens every time. Probably because I need to talk to her about her crappy work ethic but keep putting it off. I ignore the feeling, like always.
“Tell me you haven’t thought about taking one of them up on it. Not as a permanent thing but just to let him treat you to a nice dinner once in a while,” she says.
“Nah.”
“Uh huh.” Her tone implies disbelief.
“Okay, there was one, but he had a girlfriend. He never asked me out, but he charmed the socks off me every time he came in. And so good looking. He lectured me once when I was closing up about walking home alone at night and how it wasn’t safe.
He insisted he escort me the couple of blocks.
I found his protectiveness so freaking hot. ”
“Which one?” Josie asks.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember his name,” I lie. I totally remember. Armando. Sexy smooth-talking Armando with that panty-melting smile.
But I was almost grateful he was engaged.
Because as much as I crushed on him, I never, ever, want to date a mafia man.
They cheat on their wives. They’re misogynists—they think women belong barefoot, home in the kitchen.
They are dangerous. Extremely so. They commit crimes, they hurt people, even kill people.
Yes, they are men, but there's a thick undertone of villain in every single one of them.
And Armando—he felt the most unsafe. Not like he’d hurt me physically.
But emotionally. I’d fall way too hard for a guy like him. It was good he disappeared.
“ He doesn’t come in anymore. I haven’t seen him in a long time—like, years,” I tell Josie.
“Maybe he got whacked. You never know with these guys, right?”
I’m way too empathetic because that thought makes my stomach tighten up into a knot. I hardly knew the guy apart from selling him flowers for his fiancé every week. “Hope not. He seemed like he was going places.”
“Yep. Illegal places that landed him in Lake Michigan with cement shoes,” Josie jokes.
I refuse to entertain that idea. “Maybe he moved away. He and his girlfriend were engaged.” I know because he filled her apartment with every color of rose after she said yes. Mary Alice had to call for an extra shipment because he ordered so many.
“I’ll bet he’s dead. Or witness protection.” She shrugs and pushes an unfinished bouquet off to the side. “I’m going to take off, okay?”
My anxiety flutters again. It’s forty minutes until her shift ends. She hasn’t even finished what she was working on, and her work area is a mess. I definitely need the help in case a bunch of the guys next door stop in to buy bouquets before they go home.
Please, God, let there be a closing time rush.
I should tell her that, but instead, I bite back my sigh.
I love her too much to create strife between us.
I know—hiring a friend was a mistake. One I’m going to keep paying for if I don’t figure out pretty quickly how to be a boss bitch.
But Josie got laid off from her dream job as an interior decorator apprentice, so I invited her to work here with me, thinking how fun it would be to run a business with my best friend at my side.
Except it’s not always fun. And lately, it’s more stressful when she’s around than when she’s not.
It doesn’t take a psychotherapist to figure out that’s why I get anxious when she’s here.
My subconscious wants me to clarify things with her, but my heart can’t stand the thought of alienating my best friend.
But that’s kind of the least of my worries about running this business at this point. And I may not even have a business past next month if things don’t turn around.
“Okay thanks.”
Ugh. Why am I thanking her? I’m paying her. And she’s leaving early.
Without asking.
And I now have her mess to clean up.
Still, if I had it to do over, I’d probably hire her again because the thought of hiring a stranger makes me way too nervous.
I am so not cut out to be Boss Bitch.
Instead of saying anything more, I look to the door and try to will someone to walk in and order all the flowers I have to offer.