So many questions.
And I have a feeling the answers are going to change everything.
Chapter Four
Alessandro
There was no going back to Elena’s apartment last night.
By the time the aftermath of the explosion was handled, Greco’s pathetic little message, a blown-up car, two of my men injured but alive, it was three in the morning. She didn’t need me showing up at her door covered in soot, blood, and barely contained rage.
So I sent her a text:Something came up. I’m sorry. Are you okay?
Her response came immediately, like she’d been waiting:I’m fine. Are YOU okay?
Yes. I’ll explain everything. I promise.
I didn’t sleep. Instead, I spent the night in my office, tracking down every piece of information about the attack. Greco is getting bolder, more reckless. The explosion was two blocks from Elena’s shop. Two blocks from where she lives.
Too close.
Marco tried to talk sense into me around four AM. “Boss, you need to walk away from this girl. Greco knows about her now. He has to. Why else would he hit that location?”
“We have three properties within a five-block radius of the explosion,” I pointed out. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means he’s sending you a message. And the message is nothing you care about is safe.”
The problem is, Marco’s right. I should walk away. Ghost her. Let her think I’m just another asshole who kissed her and disappeared.
But I can’t.
Which is how I find myself standing outside Petals & Pines at exactly six PM the next evening, holding a bouquet of roses that’s probably three times larger than it needs to be.
I went overboard. I know I went overboard.
But after last night, leaving her alone and terrified, after putting her in danger just by being near her, I needed to do something grand. Something that shows her how sorry I am. How much I want to make this right.
So, I bought out half a flower wholesaler. Three dozen long-stem red roses, arranged with some kind of feathery green stuff and tied with a silk ribbon. The florist, not Elena, obviously, since that would defeat the purpose, assured me it was “appropriately romantic without being overwhelming.”
Looking at it now, it’s definitely overwhelming.
My car is parked at the curb, the Mercedes, not the SUV I usually use for business. My driver, Paulo, is behind the wheel, waiting patiently. I’m wearing my best suit, Armani, charcoal gray with a black shirt underneath. No tie, because I read somewhere that ties are too formal for dinner dates.
I have reservations at Canlis, the best restaurant in Seattle. Waterfront views, seven courses, wine pairings. I pulled every string I have to get a table on twenty-four hours’ notice.
Marco, who watched me prepare for this evening with increasing horror, told me I look like I’m either closing a hostile merger or attending a funeral.
He might have a point.
The shop door is locked, she closes at six, but I can see movement inside. Elena, cleaning up for the day. My chest does that uncomfortable thing it’s been doing since I met her, like my heart is trying to remember how to feel something other than cold calculation.
I knock.
She looks up, and even through the frosted glass, I can see her smile. That dimple in her left cheek. Those honey-colored eyes that see too much.
She unlocks the door and opens it, and I’m struck all over again by how beautiful she is. She’s wearing jeans and a simple white sweater, her hair in a ponytail. No makeup that I can see. She looks perfect.
And then she sees the roses.
