Chapter 2 - The Man in the Storage Room
The stranger introduced himself as Mr. Vale.
Lena did not believe him.
Men who came into flower shops at seven fifteen in the morning usually looked embarrassed, guilty, or newly in love. Mr. Vale looked as if he were measuring exits.
He wore a black wool coat buttoned to the throat despite the warmth inside. Rain dotted his shoulders. A faint scar cut through one eyebrow.
“I’m looking for a friend,” he said.
“What kind of flowers does he like?”
His eyes settled on her.
“I don’t know.”
“That makes recommending a bouquet difficult.”
“I’m not buying flowers.”
“That makes standing in my flower shop difficult.”
For half a second, his mouth almost smiled.
Then he placed a photograph on the marble counter.
Dante.
Not smiling. Not wounded. Leaving a courthouse in a dark suit with three other men surrounding him.
Lena’s stomach tightened.
“Seen him?”
She forced her eyes to remain on the photograph.
“No.”
Mr. Vale tapped it once.
“He may have come through this neighborhood.”
“So do thousands of people.”
“He’s hurt.”
Lena shrugged.
“That sounds unfortunate.”
He studied her face.
Behind the greenhouse door, the storage room was silent.
Too silent.
Lena became aware of every ordinary sound around her: the refrigerator compressor, the whisper of the heater, a bus braking outside, her own heartbeat.
Mr. Vale walked slowly toward the orchids.
“Nice place.”
“Thank you.”
“Expensive neighborhood.”
“Also true.”
“Hard to keep a little shop alive around here.”
“That depends how many strangers come in to discuss my finances.”
His gaze sharpened.
Then the bell over the front door rang again.
Mrs. Patterson swept inside wearing a camel coat and carrying the energy of a woman late for everything.
“Lena! Please tell me the birthday roses are ready because my daughter changed brunch reservations again and if I have to cross Atlantic Avenue twice I’m going to commit a felony.”
Lena nearly kissed her.
“On the counter.”
Mrs. Patterson noticed Mr. Vale.
“Oh. Sorry. Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Lena said immediately. “This gentleman was just leaving.”
Vale’s eyes remained on her.
Then he picked up the photograph.
“Call me if you remember anything.”
“I don’t have your number.”
He placed a business card beside the register.
“You do now.”
He walked out.
Mrs. Patterson watched him through the window.
“Drug dealer?”
“Real-estate broker.”
“Same thing in Brooklyn.”
Lena laughed because she needed to.
She completed the order, listened to a detailed complaint about brunch pricing, and waited until Mrs. Patterson left.
Then she locked the front door.
Flipped the sign to CLOSED.
Rushed into the greenhouse.
The storage-room lock clicked beneath her hand.
“Dante?”
No response.
She opened the door.
He was sitting on the cot, pistol in his right hand.
Lena stopped.
The weapon changed the room.
So did the way he held it.
Steady.
Familiar.
He lowered it immediately.
“Sorry.”
“You have a gun.”
“Yes.”
“In my storage room.”
“Yes.”
“Next to my Valentine’s Day ribbon inventory.”
His brow furrowed.
“Is that relevant?”
“It is to me.”
He slipped the pistol back beneath his jacket.
Lena crossed her arms.
“Who are you?”
“Dante Moretti.”
She stared.
The name reached her slowly, then all at once.
Moretti Development.
Moretti Restaurants.
Moretti Hospitality.
And the other stories people lowered their voices to tell.
The Moretti family had existed in Brooklyn longer than most apartment towers. The newspapers described them as business owners with “historic associations.” Everyone else used simpler language.
“Oh.”
Dante leaned his head against the wall.
“That response is usually louder.”
“I’m deciding whether to throw you outside.”
“Reasonable.”
“A man just showed me your picture.”
His eyes opened.
“Describe him.”
“Forties. Pale. Scar through his left eyebrow. Black coat. Creepy personality.”
“Rafael Vale.”
“So that part was real?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Friend?”
“No.”
The answer chilled her more than the gun.
“What does he want?”
“Me dead.”
Lena sat down on an overturned flower bucket.
“Wonderful.”
Dante put the weapon on the cot beside him, muzzle pointed safely away.
“I’ll leave.”
“You’ll collapse before the alley.”
“My people are coming.”
“Who are your people?”
“People who won’t ask you questions.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Lena rubbed her forehead.
“Why did you come here?”
“I told you. I needed somewhere safe.”
“You own buildings. Restaurants. Probably underground bunkers.”
“No bunkers.”
“Your face just said there are absolutely bunkers.”
Despite himself, Dante laughed.
It was short and painful.
Then his expression changed.
“I was meeting someone near the waterfront. It went wrong. My driver was hit. I got away on foot. I knew this block.”
“And chose my shop.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“Because you open early.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
The word came quietly.
Dante looked through the cracked door toward the rows of flowers.
“My mother liked white roses.”
Lena said nothing.
“She died when I was nineteen. Hospitals smelled like antiseptic. Funeral homes smelled like chemicals. White roses were the only thing in either place that didn’t feel dead.”
He looked embarrassed by the confession.
“I’ve seen them in your window every week.”
Something inside Lena softened before she could stop it.
“You could have just bought some.”
“I’m not good at ordinary things.”
“That may be the first believable thing you’ve said.”
A vibration buzzed in his pocket.
Dante checked his phone.
His face hardened.
“My men are outside.”
“Are they going to break anything?”
“No.”
“Good. I charge.”
She opened the back greenhouse door.
Three black SUVs waited in the alley.
Four men stepped out.
One was older, silver at the temples, with a face built from suspicion.
“Boss.”
His eyes went directly to Dante’s bandage.
Then to Lena.
“Who is she?”
“The reason I’m standing.”
The man’s attention sharpened.
Dante gestured.
“Lena Kowalska. This is Marco Bellini, my security chief.”
“Security chief,” Lena repeated.
Marco looked at the blood on Dante’s shirt.
“We need to move.”
Dante nodded.
Before stepping outside, he turned to Lena.
“Vale came here. That changes things.”
“How?”
“He saw your face.”
“My face has been publicly available since kindergarten.”
“He’ll connect you to me.”
“He has no proof.”
“He doesn’t need proof to become dangerous.”
Lena felt irritation rise through the fear.
“I helped you. I did not apply to join your crisis.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t decide what happens to my life next.”
Dante went very still.
Marco looked between them as if nobody spoke to Dante that way and survived the experience.
Dante nodded once.
“You’re right.”
That surprised everyone, including Lena.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“My shop stays open.”
“Not today.”
“Excuse me?”
“You have broken glass in the alley, blood on the greenhouse floor, and a man who followed me inside. Close for one day.”
“I have orders.”
“I’ll pay for them.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why not?”
“Because then you become the reason I can afford my life.”
For a moment, Dante had no answer.
Marco coughed into his fist suspiciously like he was hiding a smile.
Lena pointed at him.
“You. Stop enjoying this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dante sighed.
“Close until noon.”
“Ten.”
“Eleven thirty.”
“Ten thirty.”
He stared at her.
“Do you negotiate every crisis?”
“I negotiate wedding mothers.”
“Ten thirty.”
“Good.”
He reached into his coat and removed a card.
No company logo.
Just a number.
“If anything feels wrong, call.”
Lena accepted it.
“I thought your people weren’t supposed to ask questions.”
“They won’t.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
The honesty landed strangely.
Dante stepped toward the SUV.
“Lena.”
She looked up.
“Thank you.”
“You said that already.”
“I didn’t understand what it cost you the first time.”
Before she could answer, Marco opened the rear door.
Dante climbed inside.
The convoy pulled away.
Lena stood in the wet alley holding a black card between two fingers.
At ten twenty-five, she reopened Bloom & Stems.
At ten thirty-two, Sophia walked in, saw the broken planter, the blood she had missed beneath the bench, and Lena’s exhausted face.
“What happened?”
Lena looked toward the street where the SUVs had disappeared.
“I think I met my landlord.”
Sophia stared.
“That is not what landlords usually do to people.”
“No.”
May you like
Lena folded Dante’s card into her apron.
“I’m starting to understand that.”
