Chapter 4 - The Back Room at Gene’s
The restaurant was located down a narrow, cobblestone alleyway in the Heart of Chicago neighborhood—a place with no sign above the door, no streetlights nearby, and a small iron grille set into the heavy oak entrance.
When Vincent knocked twice on the oak, a slide clicked open, a pair of sharp brown eyes looked through the grille, and the door swung open instantly.
Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of roasted garlic, seared veal, red wine, and slow-simmered tomato sauce. There were only eight tables in the entire establishment, all covered in crisp white linen, occupied by older men in heavy suits who lowered their voices the second Vincent walked through the door.
Vincent didn't sit at the main tables.
He led Maggie through a narrow kitchen where four line cooks in white coats nodded to him in silent respect, through a set of heavy swinging doors, and into a private back room framed by floor-to-ceiling wine racks holding dust-covered bottles of vintage Barolo.
A table for two was already set in the center of the room.
"Sit," Vincent said, pulling out a dark wooden chair for her.
Maggie sat down, her canvas apron finally removed, revealing her simple black wool sweater and dark jeans. She felt immensely out of place among the vintage crystal and dark mahogany, her hands still faintly stained green at the knuckles.
A silver-haired waiter in a black vest appeared silently, pouring two glasses of deep red wine before setting a basket of hot, crusty Italian bread and a bowl of green olive oil on the table.
"Does everyone in Chicago bow to you, Mr. Moretti?" Maggie asked, picking up a piece of bread.
Vincent sat down across from her, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket. "No. Only the ones who want to keep their liquor licenses."
Maggie took a bite of the bread, chewing slowly, letting the warm olive oil wash away the bitter taste of flower stems. "You're very honest about it."
"Lying takes energy," Vincent said, picking up his wine glass. "And I have very little patience for wasted energy."
He looked at her over the rim of his glass. The warm, low light of the back room reflected in his dark eyes, softening the harsh, marble lines of his face.
"Tell me about Sullivan’s Flowers," Vincent said.
Maggie paused, her glass halfway to her mouth. "There's not much to tell. My grandfather bought the shop in 1958. He sold carnations to factory workers and lilies to the local churches. My father took it over in '88, expanded the cooler, and died six years ago. Now it's mine."
"And your mother?"
"Died when I was twelve," Maggie said simply, without drama or self-pity. "Ovarian cancer. She was the one who planted the garden behind the shop. I still keep her mint plants alive in the back room."
Vincent listened silently, his posture relaxed, his large hands holding his glass with effortless grace.
"You run it entirely alone?" he asked.
"I have a college kid named Toby who works Tuesday afternoons," Maggie said. "Otherwise, yes. Just me, my shears, and my wholesale broker in Miami."
"It's a hard life," Vincent observed softly. "Waking up at three in the morning to buy stems that die in four days."
Maggie set her glass down, looking directly into his eyes. "They don't just die, Mr. Moretti. They give people something beautiful for those four days. A wedding, a funeral, an apology, a room full of old women in a nursing home. That's not a waste of time. It's purpose."
Vincent stared at her.
For the second time since he had walked into her shop three days ago, he looked genuinely caught off guard. The cold, calculated mask he wore like armor seemed to slip, revealing a deep, quiet tiredness underneath—the exhaustion of a man who spent his life managing debts, threats, and territorial wars in the dark corners of the city.
"Purpose," Vincent murmured, testing the word on his tongue as if it were a foreign language.
Before Maggie could reply, the heavy doors opened, and two waiter assistants carried in two large bowls of handmade papardelle with slow-braised wild boar ragù.
The food was incredible—rich, savory, heavy, and hot.
For twenty minutes, they ate in relative silence. Maggie was too hungry to worry about proper table etiquette, and Vincent seemed perfectly content to watch her finish every bite of her pasta with quiet, intense satisfaction.
"You didn't ask about Clara," Vincent said suddenly, setting his fork down.
Maggie looked up, wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin. "Who?"
"My fiancée," Vincent said. "The woman who left me on speakerphone in your shop."
Maggie paused. She pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I didn't think it was my business."
"She called me three times today," Vincent said calmly. "Gregory—the man she left for Miami with—turned out to have two pending tax evasion indictments in Florida. He locked her out of his hotel suite at two o'clock yesterday afternoon."
Maggie raised her eyebrows. "Karma moves fast in Florida."
"She wants to come back to Chicago," Vincent continued, leaning back in his chair. "She wants me to send a car to the airport tomorrow."
Maggie looked at him—at his dark eyes, his calm face, and his broad, unyielding shoulders.
"Are you going to send the car?" Maggie asked softly.
Vincent took a slow sip of his wine. He set the glass down with a soft, definitive clink against the white tablecloth.
"I don't re-buy wilted flowers, Miss Sullivan," Vincent said.
A sudden, sharp thrill flared in Maggie’s chest—a sudden, hot current of warmth that had nothing to do with the red wine or the hot pasta.
Vincent reached into his coat, pulled out a small, heavy silver card, and slid it across the table toward her.
"My private mobile number," Vincent said. "If you ever need freight space at O'Hare, if your supplier increases your rates, or if anyone in River North makes your work difficult... you call me directly."
Maggie picked up the silver card. It bore no name, no company logo—just ten raised digits carved into heavy brushed steel.
May you like
"I don't accept protection, Mr. Moretti," Maggie said firmly.
"It isn't protection, Maggie," Vincent said softly, his voice dropping into that deep, breathtaking register that made her skin tingle. "It's an investment."
