The Mafia Boss Was Dumped in Her Flower Shop—Then She Said, “You Still Have to Pay for the Roses”

Three minutes and forty seconds.

That was how long it took for three black Maybach sedans to pull up onto the sidewalk outside Sullivan’s Flowers, their tires mounting the curb, their high-beam headlights illuminating the shattered glass inside the shop like a movie set.

The car doors opened simultaneously.

Eight men in dark suits stepped out into the night, instantly forming a perimeter around the entrance, their coats pulled back, their eyes locked on the surrounding rooftops and alleys.

Vincent Moretti stepped out of the rear seat of the center vehicle.

He was not wearing a tuxedo tonight. He wore a long dark leather coat over a grey wool sweater, his silver-headed cane held tightly in his right hand.

He walked through the shattered window frame, his leather shoes crushing glass into fine dust.

Maggie was sitting on an inverted wooden crate near the counter, holding a damp paper towel against a small cut on her left forearm where a shard of glass had grazed her skin.

Vincent stopped in front of her.

He didn't look at the shattered window. He didn't look at the crushed terracotta pots or the ruined birch arch.

He looked at her arm.

"Are you bleeding?" Vincent asked. His voice was lower than she had ever heard it—a terrifying, quiet whisper that carried the weight of an approaching storm.

"It's just a scratch," Maggie said, her voice shaking slightly. "A shard hit me when the block came through."

Vincent stepped closer. He dropped his cane onto the floor, knelt on one knee in the glass and dirt in front of her, and reached out with both hands.

His large, broad fingers gently took her arm, lifting her forearm to the yellow light of the work lamp. He inspected the tiny cut with meticulous, silent focus.

"Daniel," Vincent called out without looking back.

"Boss?"

"Call Dr. Rossi. Have him at my house in fifteen minutes."

"I don't need a doctor, Vincent!" Maggie said, trying to pull her arm back. "It doesn't even need stitches! It's two inches long!"

Vincent didn't release her arm. His dark eyes rose from her wound, meeting her grey eyes with an intensity so raw and absolute that it made her tongue go dry.

"You are bleeding in a room because of my name, Maggie," Vincent whispered, his thumb resting gently against her wrist, where her pulse was racing at a frantic tempo. "That means your health is no longer your decision."

He turned his head toward the front of the shop.

Marcus—the six-foot-four man who usually guarded the shop door—walked in, holding the wet cardboard note in a pair of clear plastic tongs.

"It's Sal's crew from the Fifth Ward, Boss," Marcus said softly. "They've been trying to push the protection rackets back into River North since the alderman was indicted last week. They saw your car parked here on Tuesdays."

Vincent stood up slowly. His long leather coat settled around his ankles like a shadow.

He looked at the cardboard note.

"Sal," Vincent said softly.

"Sal," Marcus confirmed. "He's at the club on 18th Street right now."

Vincent reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pristine white linen handkerchief, and wrapped it carefully around Maggie’s cut, tying a small, precise knot at her wrist.

"Marcus," Vincent said calmly.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Clear the glass. Call the glass contractor from the West Loop—the one who does the bank windows. I want a reinforced three-ply laminate window installed before six AM tomorrow."

"Understood."

"And Marcus?"

"Boss?"

"Take four men. Go to 18th Street," Vincent commanded smoothly, his dark eyes fixing on the night street outside. "Tell Sal that if he ever looks toward Grand Avenue again, I will personally buy his building, tear it down, and plant red roses over the foundation."

Marcus grinned—a cold, terrifying smile—and nodded. "Consider it done, Boss."

Vincent turned back to Maggie. He reached down, taking her good hand in his heavy palm, and lifted her off the wooden crate with effortless strength.

"Come," Vincent said softly.