“Stupid,” the word is muttered while arranging a bouquet for one of the few remaining loyal customers. “Stupid to fall for him. Stupid to think it could work. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
The shop bell chimes.
“We’re closing early today,” the announcement comes without looking up. “Sorry, but—”
“Elena Harper?”
The voice is unfamiliar, male, with an accent that’s definitely not local. Looking up reveals three men in the shop, all wearing dark jackets and expressions that make every instinct scream danger.
“Can I help you?” The pruning shears get gripped tighter, though what good they’d do against three grown men is questionable.
“You can come with us quietly.” The speaker is tall, scarred, with dead eyes that have seen too much violence. “Our boss wants to have a conversation.”
“Your boss can make an appointment like everyone else.” Keeping voice steady takes effort. “Now, get out of my shop.”
“See, that’s the thing.” He takes a step forward, and the other two fan out. “It’s not really a request.”
The back room is maybe ten feet away. The panic button Alessandro insisted on installing, the one I swore I would never be use, is back there, hidden under the worktable.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Another step back, trying to calculate distance, angles, chances. “Leave now or I’m calling the police.”
“The police?” The man laughs. “Sweetheart, the police aren’t going to help you. Not when you’re De Luca’s whore.”
The word hits like a slap. “Get out.”
“Make us.”
They move fast, faster than I expected. One grabs for my arm. The pruning shears swing wildly, catching him across the face. He screams, blood spraying, and for a second there’s hope—
Then the second man has me, arm around my throat, lifting me off my feet. The shears clatter to the floor. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Can’t—
The front window explodes.
Not from inside. From outside. Someone shooting—
Alessandro’s men. The ones he said would watch the shop. Two of them bursting through the shattered glass, guns drawn, shouting commands—
The world becomes violence.
Gunfire, so loud and deafening in the enclosed space. The man holding me uses my body as a shield. Hot blood sprays across my face, not mine, someone else’s. One of Alessandro’s men goes down, the back of his head—
God. Oh God. There’s brain matter on the wall. Gray and red and—
Vomit rises but gets swallowed down. I can’t be sick. I can’t freeze. I have tomove.
Another of Alessandro’s men falls, chest blooming red. He’s still alive, gasping, trying to reach his weapon. The scarred man walks over calmly and shoots him point-blank in the face.
The sound is wet, final, horrible and will haunt dreams forever.
“Get her in the van!” The scarred man is already moving, and the one holding me drags backward toward the door. “Now!”
Outside, a white van waits with doors open. Struggling, fighting, trying to scream, but his arm is crushing the air from my throat. Black spots dance across vision.
“Stop fighting, bitch.” His breath is hot against my ear. “Save your energy. You’re going to need it for what comes next.”
He throws me into the van. I hit the metal floor hard, pain exploding through shoulder and hip. Before recovery is possible, they’re climbing in, all three of them, pulling the doors shut, the van is already moving.
“Drive!” The scarred man shouts toward the front. “De Luca’s men will be swarming this area in minutes.”
