Chapter 5: Unbidden Blooms
Two weeks had passed since the night Luca Moretti had bled on her floor. Two weeks in which Emilia Hart had tried, with varying degrees of success, to scrub the memory of that night from her mind as thoroughly as she had scrubbed his blood from the wooden planks of her workroom. She'd replaced the stained white lilies, even though the ghostly fingerprint had been almost invisible to anyone but her. She'd aired out the shop repeatedly, hoping to dispel the lingering phantom scent of antiseptic and fear. Life, and Hart's Blooms, had ostensibly returned to normal.
But normalcy felt different now, thinner, like a veil that could be ripped away at any moment. Every unexpected late-evening knock, every shadow that lingered too long outside her window, sent a jolt of anxiety through her. She found herself locking the door more meticulously, her gaze sweeping the quiet street with a newfound, unwelcome vigilance before she stepped out into the dusk.
The memory of him, however, was not entirely one of terror. Intertwined with the fear was the undeniable image of his vulnerability, the rough gratitude in his voice, the surprising restraint he'd shown. And, if she were truly honest with herself in the quiet solitude of her apartment, there was a strange, disquieting curiosity about the man who existed beyond the pain and the danger. It was a thought she quickly suppressed whenever it surfaced. Such men were not for her world.
It was a blustery Tuesday afternoon, the kind where the wind whipped stray petals around the shop and teased the chimes above the door into a restless melody. Emilia was carefully wiring a delicate crown of forget-me-nots and baby's breath for a christening when the bell above the door gave a firm, decisive jingle that was somehow different from her usual customers.
Her heart leaped into her throat. She looked up, her hands freezing mid-twist.
Luca Moretti stood just inside the doorway, filling it as he had that terrible night, though this time he was not bleeding, nor was he pressing himself into the shadows. He was dressed in another impeccably tailored dark suit, though less formal than the last, with an open-collared shirt. He looked… healthier. The stark pallor was gone, replaced by a more natural olive tone, though a faint shadow of weariness still clung to him. His left side, where she knew the ugly wound lay, seemed to cause him no overt discomfort as he moved.
He looked, for all intents and purposes, like any other customer, albeit one who radiated an intensity that set the air around him vibrating.
Emilia's breath caught. For a moment, she could only stare, the delicate forget-me-nots trembling in her suddenly nerveless fingers. Fear, sharp and immediate, lanced through her. Was he here for trouble? Had his pursuers somehow tracked him to her?
"Good afternoon," he said, his voice that familiar low rumble, smoother now without the rasp of pain, but still carrying an undercurrent of gravel. He didn't smile, but his gaze, as it met hers, was direct, less overtly predatory than she remembered, though no less potent.
"Mr. Moretti," she managed, her voice a little breathless. She consciously put down the floral crown, her hands suddenly clammy. "What… what can I do for you?"
He glanced around the shop, a slow, deliberate survey that seemed to take in every detail, from the buckets brimming with vibrant tulips and irises to the ferns trailing from hanging baskets. His gaze lingered for a moment on the spot where he had collapsed. Emilia wondered if he remembered it as vividly as she did.
"I need flowers," he stated, finally turning his attention back to her.
Emilia blinked. "Flowers?" Of all the reasons she might have imagined for his return, this was the least expected.
"Yes." He paused, a flicker of something almost like awkwardness crossing his features. "For… an apology."
An apology? From him? To whom? Surely not to her, not like this. "Oh," she said, trying to regain her composure. "Well, you've come to the right place. What sort of apology? Who are they for?"
He seemed to consider this. "A woman. A… business associate's wife. There was a misunderstanding. My fault."
Emilia found herself fighting a disbelieving smile. Luca Moretti, Mafia enforcer by the terrifying feel of him, buying apology flowers for a business associate's wife. The image was incongruous, almost absurd. Yet, there he stood, a mountain of a man looking vaguely out of his depth amidst the fragrant, delicate beauty of her shop.
"Alright," she said, moving from behind her workbench. "Apology flowers often depend on the nature of the… misunderstanding. And the lady's taste, of course. Do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"
He gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "No idea. Something… nice. Not too cheap. Not too… romantic, I guess. Just… sorry."
Emilia led him towards a display of roses in various hues, mixed with elegant calla lilies and fragrant sprays of stock. "Roses are traditional, but the color is important. Yellow often signifies friendship, or a plea for forgiveness without romantic intent. White speaks of sincerity, new beginnings."
Luca looked at the roses with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "She's not the… yellow rose type." He seemed to be searching for words. "More… dramatic, maybe?"
Emilia hid her surprise. She guided him towards a stand of lush, deep purple irises and some striking crimson amaryllis. "Irises symbolize wisdom and compliments. Amaryllis can mean pride, but also splendid beauty. Perhaps a mix? Something that conveys respect, acknowledges her… stature?" She was fishing, trying to understand the dynamics he was hinting at.
He seemed to consider a dark, velvety iris, touching a petal almost hesitantly with a fingertip. The same finger that had once left a bloody mark on her lilies. The memory made Emilia shiver internally, but she kept her expression placid.
"This one," he said, indicating the iris. "And maybe some of those white ones." He pointed to a bucket of pristine white calla lilies. "Keep it simple."
As Emilia selected the blooms, her mind raced. Why was he really here? Was this elaborate charade purely for her benefit, a way to return to the scene without explicitly acknowledging their shared, dark secret? Or did he genuinely need these flowers? The thought that this dangerous man had any kind of "normal" social obligations was strangely humanizing, and therefore, even more confusing.
She arranged the irises and calla lilies with sprigs of dark green eucalyptus, creating a striking, elegant bouquet. Throughout the process, she was acutely aware of him watching her. His gaze wasn't overtly threatening, but it was unnervingly focused, missing nothing. She felt a flush creep up her neck, a warmth that had nothing to do with the shop's gentle temperature.
"That looks good," he said when she was done, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. He paid with a crisp hundred-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change with a dismissive wave of his hand when she fumbled for it.
As he took the carefully wrapped bouquet, his fingers brushed hers again. This time, the contact was brief, almost accidental, but the jolt was still there, a tiny spark in the charged air between them.
"Thank you, Emilia," he said, her name sounding less rough, more familiar this time. He didn't use "Miss Hart."
"You're welcome, Mr. Moretti," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
He nodded once, then turned and left, the bell jangling in his wake. Emilia let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her shoulders slumping. He'd come back. And he'd bought flowers. And nothing terrible had happened.
But the fragile peace of her "normal" day had been shattered once more.
A few days later, he was back.
This time, Emilia was in the middle of unpacking a large delivery of fresh potting soil, wrestling with a heavy bag near the entrance when the bell jingled. She looked up, flushed and slightly disheveled, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, to see Luca Moretti observing her with an unreadable expression.
"Mr. Moretti," she said, surprised yet again. A part of her, a treacherous, illogical part, had almost been expecting him.
"Emilia," he greeted, his gaze taking in the heavy sack of soil. "Looks like you could use a hand with that."
Before she could protest, he was beside her, easily lifting the fifty-pound bag as if it weighed nothing and carrying it to the back room where she indicated. Emilia followed, flustered and acutely aware of his proximity in the narrow aisle between flower stands.
"Thank you," she said when he'd set it down. "I usually manage, but that one was awkward."
"No problem." He lingered for a moment in the workroom, his eyes scanning the space. It was clean, tidy, all traces of that night meticulously erased, yet Emilia felt as if he could still see the ghostly outline of himself bleeding against her workbench. "Just happened to be in the neighborhood," he offered, by way of explanation for his presence. "Thought I'd… see if everything was alright. After, you know."
Her heart did a strange little flip. Was that concern in his voice? Genuine concern? "Everything is fine, Mr. Moretti," she said, a little too quickly. "Thank you for asking. And for helping with the soil."
"Luca," he corrected, his voice soft. "You called me Luca that night."
Emilia felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "Right. Luca." Saying his given name felt intimate, a step across a boundary she wasn't sure she was ready to cross. "And you can call me Emilia. You already do."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, so fleeting she almost missed it. "Emilia." He said her name as if tasting it, the sound sending an unexpected shiver down her spine. "It suits you. Like one of your flowers." He gestured vaguely. "Soft. Pretty."
The compliment, so unexpected, so direct, left her momentarily speechless. She busied herself by brushing non-existent dust from a nearby shelf. "Well, thank you," she mumbled.
He didn't stay long that day. He asked a few perfunctory questions about some of the more unusual blooms she had on display – a bird of paradise, some exotic orchids – listening intently to her explanations. Emilia found herself talking more easily this time, her initial fear receding slightly, replaced by a cautious curiosity. He was surprisingly well-spoken when he chose to be, his observations occasionally insightful. He seemed to genuinely absorb what she said about the flowers, though she couldn't imagine him ever having a garden.
When he left, he bought a single, perfect gardenia, its creamy petals and intoxicating fragrance filling the small space between them as she wrapped it. "For my goddaughter," he said, a rare softness touching his eyes. "She likes things that smell nice."
That small glimpse of tenderness, the mention of a child in his life, chipped away another tiny piece of Emilia's apprehension. It didn't erase the knowledge of who he was, what he was capable of, but it added another layer to the enigma of Luca Moretti.
His visits continued, sporadically, over the next few weeks. Always a pretense, always plausible on the surface. Flowers for an elderly aunt. A small plant for his "office" (Emilia couldn't imagine what kind of office he meant). Once, he simply walked in, bought a bottle of water from her small cooler, and asked how her day was going, his gaze lingering on her face a moment too long before he left.
With each visit, the dynamic between them subtly shifted. Emilia's fear, while never entirely absent, lessened its grip, making way for a wary anticipation. She found herself noticing things about him: the way his dark eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when something amused him (though he rarely smiled outright), the subtle scent of expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely his own, the barely perceptible way he still favored his left side if he moved too quickly. She noticed the intelligence in his gaze when she spoke about her craft, the way he seemed to drink in the peace and beauty of her shop, like a man starved of both.
Luca, for his part, found himself drawn to Hart's Blooms with a frequency that defied logic and his own better judgment. It was a risk, coming here. A stupid risk. Someone could see him. Connections could be made. Don Antonio would raise a perfectly sculpted eyebrow if he knew his most efficient enforcer was spending his afternoons loitering in a flower shop.
But Emilia… she was an anomaly. Her quiet strength, her unwavering kindness, the way she moved among her flowers with such gentle grace – it was a balm to his perpetually frayed nerves, a stark, beautiful contrast to the ugliness of his world. He found himself thinking of excuses to see her, to hear her soft voice, to simply be in her presence. He told himself it was gratitude, a need to ensure she hadn't suffered repercussions from that night. But deep down, a part of him he'd thought long dead knew it was more than that.
He saw the fear that still lingered in her eyes when he first appeared, and it twisted something in his gut. He, who inspired fear for a living, hated seeing it directed at him from her. He found himself trying to moderate his presence, to soften the edges of his usual demeanor, an effort that felt foreign and strangely exhausting, yet also compelling.
One late afternoon, Emilia was struggling to reach a watering can on a high shelf, stretching precariously on her tiptoes. She'd been so absorbed in her task she hadn't heard the bell.
"Need a hand with that, cara?"
Luca's voice, close behind her, startled her so much she nearly lost her balance. A strong hand shot out, steadying her elbow, while his other hand easily retrieved the watering can. She found herself flush against his chest for a fleeting second, her senses filled with the solid warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the faint, clean smell of his shirt. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Oh! Luca! Thank you," she stammered, stepping back quickly, her face burning. The casual endearment, cara, hung in the air between them.
"Careful," he said, his voice a low murmur, his eyes holding hers. There was an intensity in his gaze now, a heat that went beyond mere observation. "Wouldn't want you to fall."
The air crackled. Emilia could feel the pull, the undeniable current that flowed between them whenever they were close. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was utterly, impossibly foolish.
"I… I should be more careful," she agreed, her voice barely a whisper. She took the watering can, their fingers brushing, a lingering touch that seemed to sear her skin.
He didn't move away immediately. He stood there, close enough for her to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar that bisected one eyebrow. He seemed to be warring with himself, his jaw tight.
"Emilia," he began, his voice rougher now, "about that night…"
Her breath caught. He'd never directly referenced it since that first tense conversation. "Yes?"
He looked away, towards a vibrant display of sunflowers, their cheerful faces a stark contrast to the sudden gravity of his expression. "I put you in a bad position. A dangerous one. I… regret that."
It was as close to an apology as she imagined he was capable of giving for the fear and chaos he'd brought into her life. And it meant more than any bouquet he could have bought.
"You were hurt," she said softly. "I did what anyone would have done."
He turned back to her, a faint, cynical smile playing on his lips. "No, Emilia. Not anyone. Just you." His gaze softened fractionally. "You're… different."
Different. He'd called her different. The word resonated deep within her, a quiet acknowledgment of the strange, unbidden connection that had taken root between them, as unexpected and persistent as a wildflower pushing through concrete. An attraction, potent and dangerous, was simmering beneath the surface of their carefully constructed interactions, threatening to bloom into something neither of them was prepared for. And Emilia, despite every rational thought, found a part of her wanting to see what kind of flower it might become, even knowing it could very well be a poisonous one.
The bell above the door jingled, announcing another customer, and the spell was broken. But the scent of unbidden blooms, of dangerous possibilities, lingered heavily in the air.