Chapter 7 - The Garden on the Fifth Floor
Vincent’s personal residence was not a dark mafia estate in the suburbs.
It was the top two floors of a restored 19th-century grain silo on the Chicago River—a massive, light-filled loft featuring exposed brick, polished concrete floors, soaring twenty-foot ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling glass walls that overlooked the river lights below.
Dr. Rossi—a quiet, silver-haired gentleman with a leather medical bag—had treated Maggie’s arm in three minutes, applying an antiseptic salve and a small butterfly bandage before leaving silently with Daniel.
Now, it was midnight.
Maggie stood on the private terrace on the fifth floor of the loft, wearing an oversized black wool sweater that Vincent had given her, holding a hot mug of chamomile tea.
The terrace was a shock.
It was an enormous, glass-enclosed rooftop garden filled with lush greenery, mature olive trees in terra-cotta pots, climbing jasmine vines, and trays of vibrant, flowering herbs.
"You have a greenhouse," Maggie said, looking around in utter astonishment.
Vincent walked out onto the terrace, wearing a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, holding a glass of mineral water.
"My grandfather brought the olive trees from Sicily in 1962," Vincent said, standing beside her near the glass wall. "When he died, I had them moved here. They don't like the Chicago winters, so I built the glass enclosure."
Maggie walked over to one of the olive trees, touching the soft, silvery leaf with her fingertips.
"You're a secret gardener, Vincent Moretti," she said softly, turning her head to look at him.
Vincent let out a short, quiet breath that sounded almost like a sigh. "It is the only place in the city where things grow because you feed them, rather than because they fear you."
Maggie walked toward him, her bare feet making no sound against the smooth stone floor of the terrace.
She stood in front of him—tall, slender, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her grey eyes clear and completely steady under the moonlight.
"Sal threw that block because of you," Maggie said quietly.
Vincent’s posture stiffened. "I know. And I will ensure—"
"I don't care about Sal," Maggie interrupted softly.
Vincent paused, his dark eyebrows pulling together. "You don't care?"
"My grandfather's window was just glass, Vincent," Maggie said, stepping closer until her sweater brushed against his chest. "It can be replaced. But you... you brought thirty-six red roses to an old woman who lost her husband thirty years ago. You spent three hundred dollars on pasta because I looked tired. And you knelt in broken glass tonight just to wrap a handkerchief around my arm."
She reached up, her hand gently touching his broad, dark cheekbone.
"You act like a cold man, Vincent Moretti," she whispered. "But you're not cold at all. You're just surrounded by people who don't know how to look at flowers."
Vincent froze.
His breath caught in his throat. His glass of mineral water remained stationary in his hand, his dark eyes wide, dark, and wild with an emotion he had kept buried under marble and iron for fifteen years.
Slowly, deliberately, Vincent set his glass down on a nearby stone bench.
He raised both hands, framing her face with his broad, calloused palms, his thumbs gently resting against her cheekbones.
"Maggie," Vincent whispered, his voice trembling slightly with a deep, magnificent weight. "I have spent my entire life protecting things that belong to my family. But I have never wanted to protect anything the way I want to protect you."
"I don't want protection, Vincent," Maggie whispered back, her fingers wrapping around his wrists. "I want you."
Vincent let out a low, rough sound from the back of his throat and brought his lips down onto hers.
May you like
The kiss was not gentle, nor was it timid. It was deep, fierce, hungry, and heavy with the absolute devotion of a man who had finally found the one thing in the world he could not afford to lose.
Maggie surrendered to the touch, wrapping her arms around his broad neck, pulling his large body closer to hers among the scent of olive leaves and night-blooming jasmine, feeling the cold darkness of the city melt away under his fierce, absolute heat.
