But wars have casualties, and the thought of Elena becoming one makes something primitive and vicious uncoil in my chest. Something that wants to tear Greco apart with my bare hands, wants to paint the streets red with anyone who’d dare look at her wrong, wants to burn the entire criminal underworld to ash if that’s what it takes to keep her safe.
The phone buzzes one more time. Elena:Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Sleep well, Alessandro.
Sleep. As if sleep were possible with her face in my mind and blood about to be on my hands and the knowledge that tomorrow, when she shows up with soup, a plant and that dimpled smile, lies will be told. Pretend nothing happened. Pretend normal. Pretend the man she’s falling for isn’t currently orchestrating the destruction of an entire criminal operation.
You too, tesoro. Sweet dreams.
The phone goes dark. The city glitters below. And Alessandro De Luca, The Shadow, walks into the darkness to do what shadows do best, eliminate threats before they can reach the light.
Because Elena Harper deserves to live in the sunshine, surrounded by flowers and Christmas lights and the belief that people can be honest and real.
Even if the man she’s falling for is neither.
Especially because of that.
The elevator descends. The war begins. And somewhere in the distance, a blood-red poinsettia lies shattered on the concrete, a promise and a warning wrapped in broken pottery.
They threatened what’s mine.
Now they’ll learn why people cross the street to avoid The Shadow.
Now they’ll learn what happens when you bring winter to a man who’s finally found his spring.
Chapter Seven
Elena
Morning sunlight streams through the windows of Petals & Pines, catching on the dust motes and turning them into tiny dancers. The coffee maker gurgles in the back room, filling the shop with the rich aroma of dark roast. Christmas music plays softly, Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases, and everything feels peaceful. Normal.
Which should have been my first warning.
The brick comes through the front window at exactly 8:47 AM.
Glass explodes inward in a glittering shower, and the sound, God, the sound is deafening. Shelves rattle. Vases tip over. My Christmas tree shudders, ornaments swinging wildly.
For a second, shock freezes me in place. Then training kicks in, not the kind of training normal florists have, but the kind you develop after being shot at in a Christmas market. Drop. Cover. Assess.
Crouched behind my worktable, heart hammering so hard it might crack my ribs, the shop is surveyed. Glass everywhere. Cold December air pouring through the jagged hole. And on the floor, amid the scattered flowers and broken pottery, sits a brick wrapped in paper.
No. No, no, no.
Hands shake as I reach for the brick and unfold the paper. The message is brief, written in blocky letters with what looks like a red marker:
LEAVE THE SHADOW OR THE NEXT ONE WON’T MISS
The Shadow. Alessandro’s nickname. The one whispered in certain circles, the one that makes grown men nervous.
Which means this isn’t random vandalism. This is a message. For me. About him.
The brick slips from numb fingers, clattering to the floor. My shop, my sanctuary, the thing built with bare hands and dreams and Nonna’s memory has been violated. Because of him. Because of whatever war he’s fighting, whatever enemies he’s made.
Because loving him makes me a target.
With trembling fingers, I yank my phone from my back pocket and pull up Alessandro’s name without thinking. But before I can hit call, the shop door opens.
Correction, what’s left of the door opens. The brick took out most of the glass, and now a man steps through, tall, dark jacket, cold eyes that scan the destruction with professional interest.
“Elena Harper?” His voice is flat, emotionless.
