Wicked Mafia Sinner (Red Letter Syndicate #6)

Chapter 1

One

Cora

Iam in heaven.

Well, not the real deal. I'm not dead. But I love this time of day. I flip the sign on my flower shop door from open to closed. I toss the scissors down and pick up a broom.

“Sweet Jesus! Finally.” Customers have kept me busy for the last few hours and I’m ready to finish up, grab something to eat and then get to my next job.

With a couple of steps I flick on the radio and in seconds I'm murdering Fleetwood Mac.

To no one's surprise, the new orchids by the back door are too polite to tell me how much I suck.

Figures. But who cares?

"Dreams" pours through the shop speakers while I sweep the last of the stem trimmings into the dustpan.

My hips follow the beat while I keep the broom handle tilted toward my mouth like a microphone.

There's not a soul in sight to judge me and the gardenias sure as hell aren't going to snitch about me getting my twerk on after hours.

Well, almost closing. There’s about ten minutes until official closing time, but I’m my own boss so screw the rules.

The narrow storefront catches my voice and throws it back with an echo that makes a mediocre alto sound almost passable. Okay, I am being generous about my singing talents, but you gotta be your own fan, right?

Petals & Thorns is drenched in my favorite scent, the sweetness of flowers mixed with the sunshine pouring through my front windows.

Yeah, I know sunshine doesn't technically have a smell, but when closing time rolls around every late afternoon and golden light fills my shop, my senses blend it all together, rose petals, happiness, and hope.

The gardenias own the room right now, shoving their scent across the counter and through the front display like they know they're everyone's favorite.

Underneath them I can still catch the clean bite of the soil I repotted this morning, the damp earthiness of it clinging to the creases of my palms. The roses in the cooler add a soft sweetness to the mix, red and blush and cream in graduated heights that I spent twenty minutes getting right because I'm a professional even when nobody's watching.

Late afternoon light slants through the front windows and catches the dust motes floating above the counter, turning them gold against the cream walls.

My shop runs warm at this hour, a full day of sunlight through old glass turning the air soft and heavy.

My muscles are loose from ten hours of trimming, arranging, and hauling water buckets.

I grab a stool and slide off a gardening boot to adjust my sock.

The boots are half a size too big, but good enough for working around the shop.

But still…

I rub at my arch. Maybe I should get a better pair, but not today. There’s way too much to do. I shove the boot back on and tidy up the space by the front door.

The temperamental cooler rattles on my way past. I give the lower left panel a kick…

the same spot I've been kicking since month two of my lease.

It shudders, grunts, and settles back into compliance like it knows better than to push me today.

We have an arrangement and neither of us is interested in renegotiating.

It works and I don't have to pluck money out of a bank account that has exactly twelve dollars and thirty-nine cents to fix it.

So far, our deal has held.

Finished with the broom, I turn to my second great love of life.

My illustrations.

Two dozen sheets of loose paper sit scattered across a small counter space all filled with new ideas for my newest coloring book. My latest work waits half-finished on the counter that doubles as my desk, drafting table, and dining table.

I thought this one was going to be easy. Not a word I get to throw around often when it comes to my life or my work, but I had hoped. Turns out, I was wrong.

I hold up the half-finished coloring book page featuring an intricate root system and sigh.

“Who is gonna want to color this stuff? Roots? What was I thinking?” I throw a glance over my shoulder at the botanical calendar hanging on the wall behind me.

I have three weeks to finish twenty more illustrations if I want to meet my self-imposed deadline.

“No way anyone is gonna love this.”

The next month of Ramen noodle dinners flashes through my head. If I can't get this right, all my work will be for nothing and my dismal flower sales will have to keep me afloat.

I press my palms against my thighs and rub them over my jeans.

“Breathe, Cora. Sunshine and hope, remember? Not doom and gloom.”

I try to remind myself the loan I took out to open this flower shop was not a mistake, but the numbers and my gut want me to face reality. I need to clear four grand a month or I'm toast.

I grab my second-hand laptop, flip the lid and power it up. A couple of clicks and my sales dashboard lights up, and the numbers staring back at me say people actually want what I'm putting out.

I breathe in and let the rose-tinged air out slowly.

Okay, so I can afford some milk and eggs to go with the Ramen noodles plus pay the loan.

That's not all bad. Two years ago three bank officers laughed in my face when I walked in at twenty years old asking for a small business loan to open a flower shop funded by coloring book royalties.

I swallow a snort. Screw them and their square thinking.

The fourth one laughed too, but he signed the paperwork because my numbers didn’t lie then and they don’t now. I’m not swimming in money, but I’m not at the poverty level either.

I hold the illustration up, tilt my head, and squint at it.

“Okay, be honest, Cora. Would you color this? Would you actually sit down with a glass of cheap wine, your good pencils and spend forty-five minutes filling in a root system?” I turn the page sideways.

Yeah. I would. But I'm also gearing up for a lonely Friday night and I have no weekend plans for the foreseeable future.

“I’m either brilliant or pathetic.” I let out a depressing sigh and set the illustration down.

The bell pulls my attention up and a man walks in, tall and well-dressed in a dark coat that fits perfectly across the shoulders. Neat hair, serial work-a-holic vibes and not a single romantic bone in his body.

I clock all of this in the two seconds it takes him to clear the doorway.

“Hi, um. I saw the sign. I know you’re closed, but mind tending to one more customer?”

Not one to let money walk out the door, I push my usual smile into place. “Welcome. Please, come on in.”

As he’s talking to me, he’s continuously glancing over his shoulder. “Thanks, yeah uh. I just need…um, some flowers.”

I can spot a cheating husband before he makes it past the gardenias, and I can clock a man trying to make his wife swoon all over again just as fast.

This guy is neither.

I take another slow look at the man as he tries to force himself to look at the flower displays and not the door at his back.

He gives off odd, twitchy vibes. Probably a two-pump chump in bed and a know-it-all among his guy pals. Mommy issues and total control freak under normal circumstances. Right now he seems out of sorts and that is what’s causing the beads of sweat across his brow.

And the hand wringing.

It’s not hard to read off my initial impression when he practically oozes bad vibes in waves.

Trust me, this superpower is a gift and a miserable curse as far as my dating life is concerned.

Sizing up guys has led me to a lot of solo weekends.

I tried hanging up my man-dar abilities, but that led me into a three month relationship with a twisted mafia man’s son.

I can’t stop the shudder from running through my body at the thought of Nikolai Volkov.

Pretty on the outside but rotten to the core. He was a damn good kisser, though.

Lesson learned the hard way.

I tap my chin and give the man in front of me another look.

His shoulders sit half an inch too high and his eyes sweep across the display cooler without actually landing on any of the floral arrangements.

He glances over his shoulder toward the front window, quick and sharp, then snaps back to the cooler like he's trying to remember why he walked in here. Or it could be that he’s expecting someone to walk in behind him.

This one forgot an important date. Definitely anniversary. And his wife is probably circling the block ready to kill him because he forgot.

Poor guy. I swallow my chuckle and take pity on the man.

"Welcome to Petals and Thorns." I move behind the counter and give him a warm smile. "If you tell me what you’re after, I can help."

Dull brown eyes meet mine briefly before his gaze moves to the window again. He does it twice more.

Weird.

"Yeah, uh..." He runs a hand through his hair and the wedding band on his finger catches the light, the gold dulled down to a matte finish from years of never coming off, I suspect. I peg him as late forties, if I had to guess. Never leaves the office.

He thumbs a thin scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. It’s old and faded to silver. The fear crossing his face tells me however he got that scar, it left him with memories he'd rather forget.

"Um, yeah, sorry. Umm…you got roses? Yeah, roses, I guess."

I wave at the display in front of me and then to the side wall.

"Sure do.” I inject all the sunshine I’ve got to give into my smile.

Whoever this guy is, he can use some good vibes.

“I've got every color you could want. The reds are classic, never wrong, but expected.

These ones, the blush tones, carry more intimacy, more nuance, for a woman who reads between the lines if subtle is your love language.

The whites are elegant and the perfect choice for a man who wants to say “I love you” while also saying sorry. "

As I explain, I pick up each color so the light catches the petals, angling them toward him.