Chapter 8 - The Reinforced Glass
By seven o'clock the following morning, Grand Avenue was quiet, save for the early morning delivery trucks and the distant hum of the lake wind.
Maggie stood outside Sullivan’s Flowers, holding a paper cup of black coffee.
The front window of her shop had been completely restored.
It was magnificent—a thick, crystal-clear sheet of three-ply laminated security glass, set into heavy brass framing, with the golden letters SULLIVAN’S FLOWERS — EST. 1958 repainted in crisp, flawless gold leaf across the middle.
A large black Mercedes pulled up to the curb.
Vincent stepped out, wearing a charcoal wool suit, holding his silver-headed cane. He walked toward her, his dark eyes scanning the new window with quiet approval.
"The contractor finished at five AM," Vincent said, stopping beside her. "It can withstand a twelve-gauge shotgun at three feet."
Maggie looked at him over her coffee cup. "A shotgun? Vincent, I sell tulips."
"Now you sell tulips behind bank-grade glass," Vincent replied smoothly, a faint smile touching his lips.
He looked through the glass into the shop. Inside, the floor had been scrubbed clean, the shattered terra-cotta pots replaced with high-grade Italian ceramic containers, and three massive wooden crates of fresh Dutch imports—white peonies, dark purple anemones, and rare green orchids—were sitting neatly beside her work bench.
"Where did the green orchids come from?" Maggie asked, her eyes widening in surprise.
"My freight connection at O'Hare," Vincent said casually. "A shipment arrived from Amsterdam at three AM. I had them redirect a crate to your shop."
Maggie set her coffee down on the brass door ledge. She turned to face him, leaning her back against the new, indestructible window.
"You're overwhelming my inventory, Mr. Moretti," she said softly.
"I am expanding your market, Miss Sullivan," Vincent corrected her. He stepped closer, his shadow shielding her from the morning sun. "I spoke to the board of the Art Institute this morning. They require a new floral contractor for their summer galas. Five thousand stems a week."
Maggie stared at him, her mouth opening slightly. "Five thousand?"
"I told them you were expensive," Vincent murmured, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. "And that if they ever delayed payment, I would personally review their museum charter."
Maggie let out a bright, clear laugh that made two passing pedestrians look over in surprise.
She reached out, taking his dark silk tie in her hand, pulling his face down to hers, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss against his lips right there on Grand Avenue, under the morning sun, in front of the six bodyguards sitting in the black sedans across the street.
Vincent’s hands closed around her waist, holding her tight against his three-piece suit, ignoring the horn honks from a passing transit bus.
When she finally pulled back, her cheeks were flushed a delicate rose.
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"You're terrible for my professional reputation, Vincent," Maggie whispered.
"Your reputation is secure, Maggie," Vincent said, his dark eyes shining with quiet, fierce pride. "You're the only woman in Chicago who ever told a Moretti he still had to pay for his roses."
