Chapter 7 - The Bullet in the Greenhouse
Matteo spent two days in a private hospital under a false name.
The doctors set his fingers, stitched his scalp, and confirmed he had been drugged before being taken from the gallery.
He remembered almost nothing.
Except one sentence.
“They said you were dismantling something older than you.”
Dante stood at the foot of the bed.
“What did they mean?”
Matteo shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Marco placed photographs of the painted symbol on the tray table.
Matteo’s face changed.
“I haven’t seen that since your father was alive.”
“Neither have I.”
The split crown had belonged to an old coalition between the Moretti, Vescari, and Carbone families. Their fathers called it the Crown Table. It had controlled shipping, labor contracts, construction, and illegal lending across parts of Brooklyn and Queens for decades.
Dante’s father claimed the alliance ended after three murders and a federal investigation.
Apparently someone disagreed.
Lena learned all of this in pieces.
Dante did not want to tell her.
Lena insisted.
“If my shop is bugged and people shoot at galleries because I know you, I am done being protected by ignorance.”
So he told her.
Not every crime.
Not every name.
Enough.
They sat in Bloom & Stems after closing while rain streaked the front glass.
“The Crown Table moved money through legitimate businesses,” Dante said. “Real estate, trucking, restaurants. My father kept records.”
“Records you have?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“That’s the question.”
Lena trimmed dead leaves from a ficus.
“Maybe whoever has them is afraid your audits will uncover something.”
“Yes.”
“You think your clean-up is accidentally digging toward old money.”
“Yes.”
“Then why target me?”
Dante’s expression tightened.
“Because they think I care about you.”
Lena looked up.
“Do you?”
His answer came too slowly to pretend it meant nothing.
“Yes.”
The pruning shears stopped in her hand.
Dante looked away first.
“I wish that made things safer.”
“It doesn’t.”
“No.”
“Do you regret it?”
He met her eyes.
“No.”
Lena’s heartbeat changed.
Neither moved.
The bell over the front door rang.
Both turned.
Sophia entered carrying takeout.
“Oh good, sexual tension and organized crime. My favorite combination.”
Lena threw a towel at her.
For forty minutes, the world became almost normal.
They ate noodles from cardboard boxes. Sophia mocked Dante’s inability to use chopsticks. Dante accused her of setting impossible standards. Lena laughed until her ribs hurt.
At eight thirty, Sophia left.
Dante stayed.
“I should go,” he said.
“You say that a lot.”
“I mean it more often than I do it.”
“Progress.”
He moved toward the rear greenhouse.
“I want to check the alley before Marco brings the car.”
Lena followed.
The greenhouse glowed under warm grow lights.
Outside, rain had stopped.
Dante opened the rear door.
A sound cracked through the glass.
Lena never understood what happened first.
Dante jerking backward.
The pane beside his head bursting.
Or the sudden certainty that someone outside was aiming again.
She saw the red dot move across his shirt.
“Down!”
Lena lunged.
Her hands hit Dante’s chest.
She shoved him sideways behind the brick half-wall.
The second shot came.
Something punched Lena beneath her right shoulder.
There was no cinematic pause.
No graceful fall.
Her knees simply stopped working.
She hit the greenhouse floor.
Dante caught her before her head struck the tiles.
For one second, he stared at the blood spreading through her beige blouse.
Then the man Lena knew disappeared.
“Lena.”
His voice was not loud.
It was worse than loud.
He pulled her behind the potting table and covered her body with his.
Another shot shattered a flower pot.
Dante drew his gun.
Lena grabbed his wrist.
“No.”
“Stay down.”
“Don’t—”
“Lena.”
She had never heard her name sound like that.
Marco and two guards stormed through the front seconds later.
“Shooter east roof!” Marco shouted.
Dante pressed both hands over Lena’s wound.
“Call Dr. Russo.”
“Ambulance is three minutes.”
“No hospital.”
Lena’s eyes opened wider.
Dante saw it.
He froze.
Months earlier, he had demanded no hospitals for himself.
Now she was the one bleeding.
He looked ashamed.
“Hospital,” he said immediately. “Call 911.”
Marco did.
Lena tried to laugh.
“That was growth.”
“Don’t talk.”
“You hate being ordered around.”
“Lena.”
His hands shook.
She had never seen them shake.
“Dante.”
“What?”
“I’m okay.”
“You’ve been shot.”
“So were you.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It’s symmetry.”
He almost broke.
Sirens approached.
This time, Dante did not run.
He did not hide the gun or call a private doctor.
He sat on the greenhouse floor in blood-soaked trousers and held pressure on Lena’s shoulder until paramedics pushed him aside.
At the hospital, police separated everyone.
Dante answered questions.
Carefully.
Legally.
He called his attorney.
Then he sat in the waiting room for three hours without moving.
Sophia arrived in tears.
She slapped him.
Marco stood up.
Dante raised one hand.
“It’s fine.”
Sophia slapped him again.
“That was for the second bullet.”
“There was one bullet.”
“I’m emotionally rounding up.”
Then she sat beside him and cried.
Dante stared at the floor.
“I brought this to her.”
Sophia wiped her face.
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised him.
“But she made her own choice.”
“She pushed me.”
“She saved you.”
“She shouldn’t have.”
“You did not ask.”
“No.”
“You also didn’t force her.”
“No.”
Sophia leaned back.
“She is going to be furious if she wakes up and finds you’ve converted guilt into a decision on her behalf.”
Dante looked at her.
“What decision?”
“To disappear from her life.”
He said nothing.
Sophia laughed bitterly.
“I knew it.”
“She almost died.”
“And you think leaving teaches the bullet a lesson?”
He looked away.
A surgeon appeared.
“Family of Lena Kowalska?”
Sophia stood.
“I am.”
Dante remained seated.
The surgeon looked between them.
“The bullet passed through soft tissue below the shoulder. It missed the artery, lung, and major nerves. She was extremely lucky.”
Dante closed his eyes.
“She’ll recover?”
“Yes. She’ll need physical therapy, but we expect a full recovery.”
Sophia exhaled.
“Can we see her?”
“One person for now.”
Sophia looked at Dante.
“Go.”
“I’m not family.”
“She’ll disagree.”
He entered Lena’s room alone.
She looked impossibly small beneath the white blanket.
Pale.
Tired.
Alive.
Her eyes opened.
“You look terrible,” she whispered.
Dante stopped beside the bed.
“I’m sorry.”
“For your face?”
“Everything.”
Lena’s mouth curved weakly.
“Sit.”
He sat.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he said, “I’m leaving you alone after this.”
Her eyes sharpened despite the medication.
“No.”
“Lena.”
“No.”
“You got shot because of me.”
“I got shot because a criminal fired a rifle.”
“He fired because of me.”
“And I pushed you because of me.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“That was my decision.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“I can’t watch this happen again.”
“Then help stop it. Don’t turn me into something you lost in advance.”
The sentence hit him hard.
Lena reached for his hand.
Her fingers barely had strength.
He held them carefully.
Outside the room, Marco, Sophia, and Matteo stood in the corridor.
Through the partly open door, they saw Dante bow his head over Lena’s hand.
Then he whispered something so quietly only she heard.
Lena’s eyes filled with tears.
“What did you say?” she asked.
Dante looked at her.
“I said I don’t know how to do this without becoming dangerous.”
She squeezed his fingers.
“Then learn.”
He laughed once, broken and quiet.
“I think I love you.”
Lena stared.
The morphine did not hide her surprise.
Outside, Sophia’s mouth fell open.
Marco looked at the ceiling.
Matteo whispered, “Well. That happened.”
Inside the room, Lena’s eyes softened.
“You picked a terrible time.”
“I know.”
“I’m drugged.”
“I know.”
“You’re emotionally compromised.”
“Very.”
She closed her eyes.
Dante’s face fell.
Then Lena whispered, “Ask me again when I’m awake.”
His breath left him.
She opened one eye.
May you like
“And bring flowers.”
For the first time since the shooting, Dante smiled.
