The Florist’s Secret

Valentina If Valentina DeLuca had a superpower, it was pretending everything was fine when absolutely nothing was. The ancient cash register coughed out a receipt like it was dying — again. A drooping orchid glared at her from the corner like it blamed her personally for its slow demise. And her third cup of espresso tasted like regret. Still, she straightened her floral apron, swept a fallen petal from the counter, and plastered on her best “welcome to my completely normal life” smile. Bella Fiora was quiet this morning. Too quiet. Until the bell above the door chimed. He was back. Tall. Dark suit. Smelled faintly of cedarwood and something sharper, like secrets and money. His tie was black silk, his shoes didn’t dare scuff, and his eyes — grey and unreadable — skimmed the room before landing on her. Luca Romano. He didn’t say hello. He never did. Instead, he walked to the counter and placed a folded slip of paper in front of her, weighed down with crisp hundred-dollar bills. She didn’t look at the cash. She looked at the order. Red orchids. Three white roses. Eucalyptus. Odd. Again. “Special occasion?” she asked, trying not to sound nosy. He looked at her. Not through her — at her. “Just business,” he said. And like every other time, he was gone before she could press further. Valentina stared at the paper. Then at the bouquet. Then out the window, where a black SUV rolled past slowly, too slowly. A chill ran down her spine. It was probably nothing. It was always probably nothing. But that night, she’d lie awake thinking about that arrangement. And the next morning, the Midtown Hotel would be on the news. Mob Hit. Message Sent With Flowers. Luca The flower shop was a risk. A soft place in a hard world. Every time Luca Romano stepped into Bella Fiora, he knew it. The moment his shoes hit the faded tile, the moment the air changed from exhaust fumes and gunmetal to lavender and earth — he felt the danger of it. The temptation. But she made it harder every time. Valentina DeLuca. She wasn’t supposed to ask questions. She wasn’t supposed to look at him like that — curious, unafraid, like she hadn’t already been looped into something darker than she could imagine. She had no idea who he really was. Not yet. Today, she wore a threadbare sweater under her apron and had pencil marks smudged on her fingers. Her dark curls were piled high in a messy bun like a crown she didn’t know she wore. She looked like someone who belonged in a better world — a cleaner one. And that was exactly the problem. He slid the paper and the bills across the counter, watching the flicker of confusion in her eyes as she read the combination. She always read them twice. It made something twist in his gut. “Special occasion?” she asked. He could’ve lied. Said anniversary or condolences. Something simple. But instead, he gave her the truth she wouldn’t recognize. “Just business.” She didn’t know the language yet, but the message was clear. Orchids for blood. White roses for finality. Eucalyptus… for silence. The man in the hotel room wouldn’t know what hit him until the last breath slipped from his lips and the flowers were already wilting in the vase beside him. Luca left quickly. He always did. Time spent near her was dangerous — not for him, but for her. He slid into the back of the black SUV, not looking back. “Delivery’s in motion,” he muttered to the driver. The man gave a short nod and pulled out into traffic. Luca watched the flower shop in the side mirror until it disappeared. She didn’t belong in his world. And yet, he kept coming back.