“Liam. That’s all you need for now.” A pause. “And you?”
I hesitate, voices warring. He will easily learn my name, especially if he’s staying here.
“Elexia.”
He lifts a brow. “Like the Amazon AI?”
“That’s Ah-lex-ah. I’m Eh-lek-see-uh—with two e’s. But…” I sigh. “Most people call me Lexie. With an ie.”
“Lexie,” he repeats. The name sounds like both a prayer and a threat. “The less you know about me, the better for your health. We’ll keep it that way. Go to your flowers, Luv. I’ll be right here when you get back.”
I want to argue. I want to scream. But my survival instinct wins.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But don’t touch my plants. Or my books. And for the love of God, don’t look in my bedroom.”
I bolt to my room, throw on work clothes, and rush out the door, heart frenzied.
I swear I hear him utter, “No promises.”
Georgie’s Flories is a cozy little storefront owned by a portly, cheerful old man, naturally named Georgie. Whitewashed brick walls. Hanging ferns cascading from exposed beams. Theconstant scent of roses and eucalyptus. Everything gives off a vintage, quaint vibe. Usually, it feels like a sanctuary.
Today it feels like a prison.
I’m arranging a massive pink-and-blue display for a baby shower, hands shaking so badly I nearly decapitate a dozen hydrangeas. Every time the bell above the door rings, I jump three feet.
My mind races. Is Liam still there? What if he’s stalking around my apartment, lying in wait, ready to press a knife to my throat as soon as I walk in? My hands stay calm for most of the morning.
Around noon, it happens.
Two men enter the shop. Not the guys from the alley, but they’re built the same way—like brick shithouses with expensive suits and cold, hollow expressions. A tattoo of a snake coils around one’s neck.
“Can I help you?” I ask coolly, “Do you need funeral arrangements?” Or a black-market organ operation? Flowers would spruce up the place, make it smell better, too.
Snake-neck leans over the counter, smelling of cheap cologne and cigarettes. “We’re looking for a guy. Tall. Dark curls. Might be hurt and bloody. Homeless guy said he saw a man in an old, gray car driving away.”
Ice floods my veins. I straighten the counter displays to prevent my hands from trembling.
“You didn’t see a bloody guy with tattoos hanging around?”
I give him my best vacant florist smile. “Sir, if I’d seen a bloody guy with tattoos outside my shop, I’d have called an ambulance. And the police. Obviously.” True statement.
They stare for a long moment.
“Right,” snake-neck grunts. “If you see him, call this number. Don’t call the cops. Unless you want your shop to become afuneralparlor.”
They leave, and I nearly collapse on the cash register.
The second they’re out of sight, I’m on my phone. Liam didn’t have ID, but I saw that ring. The gold crest on his pinky finger. A Triskelion with a Claddagh symbol topped by a crown.
I do a rough search of Irish Mob rings.
Results flood the screen from news articles to photos of crime scenes.
And then, a face.
Liam Donovan. Heir to the Donovan Syndicate. Head of the North Side Irish Underworld.
The screen blurs, and I bury my face in my hands. “Oh god…oh god…oh god. I saved the head of the Irish underworld.” Making the sign of the cross won’t even help me. “I’m going to hell.”
