Chapter 1 - The Second Visit
The small brass bell above the door of Sullivan’s Flowers gave its familiar, light chime as the heavy glass door swung open.
Maggie Sullivan didn't look up immediately. She was kneeling behind the wooden display counter, her dark hair pinned loosely with a brass clip, trimming the thorns off a fresh shipment of white ranunculus. The scent of damp soil, sweet eucalyptus, and blooming flora filled the narrow, cozy shop on North Clark Street.
“I’ll be right with you,” Maggie said, her fingers moving with deft efficiency. “If you’re looking for the weekend specials, the hydrangeas are on the middle rack.”
“I’m not looking for hydrangeas.”
Maggie’s hands went still.
She knew that voice. It was deep, slow, and carried a quiet, commanding weight that didn't need to be raised to get attention. She wiped her hands on her canvas apron and stood up.
Vincent Moretti was standing in the center of her shop.
He was thirty-four, broad-shouldered, and dressed in an immaculate charcoal-grey bespoke suit that screamed high-end Italian tailoring. His dark hair was combed back, framed by sharp features, a shadow of stubble along a strong jawline, and eyes as piercing and dark as midnight over Lake Michigan.
In a neighborhood full of hipsters, artists, and weekend shoppers, Vincent stuck out like a wolf sitting casually in a garden.
In his right hand, he held a single, perfectly preserved red rose from yesterday’s rejected thirty-six-stem bouquet.
“Mr. Moretti,” Maggie said, leaning her hands on the polished wooden counter. “Did the nursing home women reject your charity?”
A faint, rare smile touched the corner of Vincent’s lips. “On the contrary. Mrs. Gable on the fourth floor offered to marry me on the spot. And Mrs. Rossi told me my ex-fiancee was a fool with terrible taste in men.”
Maggie let out a genuine, warm laugh, her amber eyes sparkling under the soft golden light of the shop’s Edison bulbs. “I told you. Women over seventy don't play around.”
Vincent walked slowly toward the counter, his polished leather oxfords making no sound against the worn hardwood floor. He set the single red rose down next to her cash register.
“They liked the flowers,” Vincent said softly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “But I didn't come back to talk about senior citizens, Miss Sullivan.”
Maggie tilted her head, maintaining her calm, unbothered posture. For two years, she had run Sullivan’s Flowers alone after her father passed away. She knew who the Morettis were. Everyone in Chicago knew. The Moretti syndicate controlled the docks, half the construction unions, and the quiet agreements that kept rival families from turning the streets into war zones.
Most people dropped their eyes when Vincent walked past. Maggie just adjusted her apron.
“Then why are you here?” she asked. “More relationship advice? My hourly rate for therapy is higher than my rose prices.”
Vincent reached into his coat pocket. For a brief second, a lesser person might have flinched, expecting a weapon. Instead, he pulled out a gold fountain pen and a heavy, cream-colored linen envelope.
“My mother’s sixty-fifth birthday is in three weeks,” Vincent said, laying the envelope on the desk. “She hates gaudy arrangements. She hates corporate florists who use plastic ribbons and dyed baby's breath. She likes things that look like they were pulled from an authentic wild garden in Tuscany.”
Maggie picked up the envelope. Inside was a deposit check written for ten thousand dollars.
She stared at the number, then raised her eyes to meet his. “This is five times my usual rate for a birthday event.”
“It’s not just a birthday,” Vincent said, stepping closer until the clean, intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne mixed with the fresh scent of her lilies. “It’s a gathering of thirty family leaders from Chicago, New York, and Philadelphia. The flowers need to be perfect. And I want you to personally design and deliver them to the Moretti estate in Lake Forest.”
Maggie looked at the check, then at Vincent’s unwavering, intense expression. She knew taking money from a mafia Don was a line most business owners avoided. But she also looked around her shop—at the leaky cooler unit in the back that needed a three-thousand-dollar compressor replacement, and the rising rent notices pinned to her corkboard.
“Three conditions,” Maggie said, pointing a thorn-stripper tool at him playfully.
Vincent raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re setting conditions for the Moretti family?”
“Condition one: I choose the flowers,” Maggie counted off on her fingers. “Condition two: nobody tells me how to arrange them. And condition three: if any of your terrifying bodyguards try to tell me my eucalyptus is messy, I get to throw clippers at them.”
Vincent threw his head back and let out that deep, genuine laugh again—the one that had cracked his stoic mask yesterday.
May you like
“Agreed,” Vincent murmured, leaning across the counter until his face was mere inches from hers. “Anything else, Miss Sullivan?”
“Yes,” Maggie said, her pulse doing an involuntary quicken at his proximity. “You still have to pay for the delivery fee.”
