Don’s Flower (Five Borough Mafia #3)

Chapter 1 Rose

ROSE

I’ve been nursing the same mocktail for the last forty minutes.

Cranberry, lime, soda. Heavy on the ice, whose cubes are starting to shrink and light on everything else.

Amber had made it without asking. It only mean one thing—she’s noticed I haven’t touched alcohol in weeks, even though she’s never pointed it out.

She’s good at that.

I take a glance around. The bar is almost empty.

Last call has come and gone. The lights are lower and the music softer.

It feels like the restaurant itself is getting ready for bed.

I stay perched on the stool anyway, elbows tucked in, knees crossed, bag looped around my ankle.

I’ve timed my breathing to the rhythm of the room. It helps.

Across the bar from me, Amber wipes the counter in slow, lazy circles, her hair pulled into a messy bun that’s been threatening to collapse all night. She keeps glancing at me in the reflection of the mirror behind the bottles.

“You know,” she says casually, “normal people don’t treat mocktails like life rafts.”

“I’m hydrating,” I insist. “It’s a lifestyle.”

One of my flower arrangements sits tastefully behind her, in a designated spot on the counter.

Tonight, the protagonists are red hyacinths and black dahlias.

Playing with fire. A little private joke on the nature of this place.

Notte Bianca—“white night”—is supposed to be a place that never sleeps, but cloaked in class.

Respectable. Innocent, like most white flowers, on the surface.

But what happens here every night is anything but innocent.

The cream of the crop of New York City gathers here, elites and CEOs and socialites with money to throw out their expensive windowed walls in the sky above Manhattan.

Here, deals are made that secure billions in the pockets of the same elected few every night.

Not that anyone here would understand a jab in flower language. I could arrange the flowers so they looked like middle fingers and no one would realize, because no one actually looks at the arrangements. They’re just part of the illusion.

Amber snorts, bringing me back to the present. “You’ve been hydrating since eight.”

“I had a long day.”

“You arrange flowers.”

“I wrestle emotional support orchids,” I correct, thinning my lips in a small smile. “It’s very taxing.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. That’s new. Amber used to be better at hiding concern. Or maybe I used to be better at pretending I didn’t notice.

She leans her forearms on the bar and lowers her voice. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Waiting.”

I glance at the clock mounted above the liquor shelves. Ten minutes to closing. Right on schedule.

“I like to walk home when the streets are quiet,” I say. “Less chaos.”

“Rose.”

I turn to her. Really turn this time.

She doesn’t push. She never does. She just watches me with that blunt, unflinching look she saves for things that matter.

“You’ve been staying late every night,” she says. “You don’t drink. You jump when the door opens. And you keep looking over your shoulder like someone’s about to grab you.”

I force a laugh that sounds awkward even to my own ears. “Occupational hazard. Florists are very aware of sudden movements. Stink bugs are very good at popping out of bouquets and buzzing straight into your eye.”

She doesn’t smile.

I take another sip of my drink. I can feel it. That pressure at the base of my skull. The awareness. Like a hand resting between my shoulder blades. I don’t need to turn around to know. I’ve felt it for months.

It’s the reason I don’t go home until I absolutely have to. Until the restaurant has emptied and there’s no possible excuse to linger there.

I have a stalker.

Or rather—

I have two stalkers.

It started with one, though. At least I think it did. Around three months ago, though it could have been longer. Maybe I was just slow on the uptake.

It was easy to dismiss at first. The kind of unease you tell yourself is nothing if you don’t want to look too closely. Chills, a crawling sensation at the back of my neck, an extra set of footsteps in the dark.

Over time, that excuse stopped working. The sense of being followed settled into my days and nights without ever announcing itself outright, just a quiet certainty that someone knew where I was meant to be and chose to stay close enough that I’d feel it.

I was terrified.

I didn’t want to leave my apartment anymore, but I couldn’t afford it. I had bills to pay and somehow, staying in one place made it worse. I felt like a sitting duck.

So I adapted, because adapting is what you do when asking for help isn’t an option.

I became careful without making a show of it, adjusted my habits, stayed visible longer than I wanted to, kept my fear small and private.

I never said anything to anyone. Because, once you admit you’re scared, you lose control of it.

And the second someone else gets involved, you’re left with twice as many problems, afraid for your safety and theirs.

And God help you if you turn to the wrong person for help.

What unsettles me now—even more than feeling like I’m about to become the protagonist of a True Crime podcast—is that the presence doesn’t feel the same every time.

There’s the one that makes my body tense, like a wolf hidden in the trees, a constant threat. The one where I know that, if I’m not careful, it will swallow me whole.

And then there’s the other. Still dangerous, still watching, but contained, deliberate, as if restraint is a choice being made. Not at all like a wolf. More like whatever might be keeping the wolf at bay. I don’t know when I started noticing the difference, and I don’t like that I have.

But maybe there’s no presence at all, and I’m just going crazy.

“I’m fine,” I say lightly. “Really. Just tired.”

Amber opens her mouth, closes it, and as though an afterthought, she sighs. “Okay. I won’t push. But if you ever want someone to walk you home—”

“I don’t.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But you could.”

I shake my head. “I’ve got it under control.”

That’s the rule. Always has been. Don’t ask, don’t lean, don’t give anyone the chance to fail you.

Because they will fail you.

Not that I think Amber would fail me. Ever since I came to work here at Notte Bianca, she and the other girls—Erin, Savannah, Izzy—have been my rocks. My only friends in the world.

It makes me want to not fail them. To protect them.

Which means not dragging them into my mess.

Amber studies me for another moment, then nods. “All right. But I’m cutting you off.”

I raise an eyebrow. “From soda?”

“From pretending you’re drinking any of that.” She straightens and jerks her chin toward the far end of the bar. “He’s probably noticed, too.”

I stiffen.

“Who?” I ask, even though I already know.

Amber follows my gaze.

Matteo Moretti sits in the corner lounge, one arm draped over the back of the leather banquette, posture relaxed in a way that feels deliberate.

He’s dressed in a dark suit, jacket open, no tie.

Tattoos peek out at his cuffs and across his knuckles.

From the look of it, he hasn’t touched the drink in front of him.

He’s watching me.

He always is.

Amber raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s the one?”

“No,” I say immediately. Yes, his gaze feels about as constant as the footsteps I hear when I’m coming home at night, but not in a way that makes me want to run. Whatever danger lurks into those liquid gold eyes isn’t aimed at me.

I don’t know how I know it. I just know I do.

Amber looks surprised. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I have,” I tell her. “A lot,” I add.

“And?”

I hesitate, then shrug. “It’s not him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I search for the right words and come up empty. “Because if he wanted to hurt me, he would have already.”

That earns me a look. “That’s… not reassuring.”

I huff out a laugh. “I didn’t say it was logical.”

Matteo shifts slightly, like he feels the weight of my attention. His gaze meets mine. Dark. Unreadable. There’s no smile. No invitation.

Just awareness.

Heat crawls up my neck. I look away first.

“Besides,” I add, lowering my voice, “I’m not exactly his type.”

Amber snorts. “Then he’s an idiot.”

“He’s rich,” I say. “Powerful. Scary. He doesn’t look at women like me and think long walks and shared trauma.”

She grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips anyway.

The truth is, Matteo Moretti is a rumor in a suit. Brooklyn’s most dangerous Don. The kind of man you don’t look at twice unless you want trouble. I’ve heard things. Everyone has.

And still, his attention doesn’t scare me the way it should. Maybe because I’ve been on the receiving end of scarier things in the past. Not something I like dwelling on.

Amber finishes wiping down the bar. “Okay. We’re officially closed. You ready?”

No, I want to say, but I don’t. I just nod and slide off the stool, looping my bag strap over my shoulder. My legs feel stiff, like they always do when I’ve been sitting too long, waiting.

Then I swallow my fear and follow Amber outside.