Chapter 2 - The Shadows on Clark Street
Over the next two weeks, Sullivan’s Flowers became an informal stopping point on Vincent Moretti’s daily schedule.
He didn't bring armed guards inside. They stayed parked across the street in two blacked-out Escalades, watching the sidewalk while Vincent sat on the small brass stool near Maggie’s workbench, watching her work.
He brought her coffee from the Italian bakery three blocks down—dark roast, no sugar, exactly how she liked it, though she had never told him her preference. He had simply observed it on her desk during his second visit.
“You’re terrible at being a terrifying mob boss,” Maggie remarked on a rainy Thursday afternoon, trimming soft green moss to line a brass terrarium. “You’re ruining the neighborhood reputation.”
Vincent sat with his suit jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, elegant tattoos wrapping around his wrists—traditional Sicilian ivy and a crest bearing his family motto. He was casually helping her fold brown wrapping paper.
“My reputation is safe, Maggie,” he said quietly, his large hands carefully folding the paper edges with surprising precision. “People fear what they can't control. I don't need to yell or break glass to make men obey me.”
“And me?” Maggie asked, glancing up from her moss. “Do I obey you?”
Vincent set the paper down and looked at her. The air in the warm shop suddenly grew thick and quiet.
“You,” Vincent whispered, his voice dropping an octave, “are the only person in this city who looks at me and sees a man instead of a bullet.”
Before Maggie could process the heat surging through her cheeks, the front door bell chimed violently.
A tall, wire-thin man in a greasy leather jacket stepped into the shop. His eyes were bloodshot, his movements twitchy and nervous. He didn't look at the flowers. His hand was buried deep inside his coat pocket, pressing against a distinct, heavy shape.
Maggie’s instincts flared instantly. “Can I help you, sir?”
The man ignored her, his eyes locking onto Vincent, who hadn't moved from his stool.
“Vincent Moretti,” the twitchy man rasped, his voice trembling with a dangerous mix of adrenaline and fear. “Jimmy Moretti sends his regards from Cook County Jail.”
In a fraction of a second, the man pulled a heavy snub-nosed revolver from his jacket.
Maggie gasped, reaching out out of pure instinct to grab the metal vase beside her.
But Vincent didn't flinch.
Before the gunman could raise the barrel, Vincent moved with horrifying, fluid efficiency. He swept his arm across the workbench, launching a wooden box of heavy brass shears straight into the gunman’s face. The heavy box struck the man’s nose with a sickening crunch.
The gunman stumbled backward, blood spurting, his shot going wild—BANG!—shattering the glass case of the floral cooler behind the counter.
Before the man could recover, Vincent was across the room. He grabbed the gunman’s wrist, twisted it upward until the bone snapped with a sharp crack, and slammed the man face-first against the heavy oak display counter. The revolver clattered harmlessly onto the floorboards.
The front door burst open. Vincent’s two bodyguards—Marco and Leo—rushed in with suppressed pistols drawn, but the violence was already over.
Vincent stood over the groaning man, his breathing steady, his suit immaculate except for a single spot of blood on his cuff. He looked at Marco.
“Take him to the basement at Pier 14,” Vincent ordered, his voice as cold and emotionless as arctic ice. “Find out who paid him.”
“Yes, Don Vincent,” Marco said, dragging the unconscious gunman out the door.
The shop went silent again, save for the hiss of freon leaking from the shattered cooler behind the counter.
Vincent turned around slowly. The cold, lethal killer mask he had worn for three seconds vanished the moment his eyes landed on Maggie.
She was standing near her workbench, her chest heaving, holding a pair of heavy garden shears like a weapon.
Vincent took a cautious step toward her, his hands raised slightly. “Maggie. Are you hurt?”
Maggie looked at the shattered cooler glass covering her imported Dutch tulips. Then she looked at the broken gunman’s blood on her counter. Then she looked at Vincent.
“My cooler,” she breathed, her voice shaking slightly.
Vincent closed the distance between them, gently reaching out to take the garden shears from her tight grip. He set them down and gathered her hands into his own warm, solid palms.
“I will replace the cooler,” Vincent said softly, his dark eyes filled with a sudden, intense remorse. “I will replace the whole shop. I am sorry, Maggie. I brought my world into yours.”
Maggie looked down at his hands—hands that had just broken a man’s wrist without hesitation, yet were holding her fingers with delicate, aching gentleness.
“He had a gun, Vincent,” Maggie whispered, looking up into his eyes. “He was going to shoot you.”
“He didn't,” Vincent replied quietly. “And he never will again.”
He reached up, his long fingers gently cupping her jaw, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. “I should leave. It isn't safe for you if people see me here.”
As he began to pull back, Maggie’s hand shot out, grabbing his shirt lapel, stopping him in his tracks.
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“Don't you dare,” Maggie said, her voice recovering its sharp, stubborn edge. “You still haven't finished wrapping those birthday carnations.”
Vincent stared at her for a second, stunned. Then, a slow, breathtaking smile broke across his face.
