Chapter 1 - The Weight of Black RosesThe heavy glass door of Petals & Grace had barely closed behind the delivery courier before the entire atmosphere inside the shop shifted from crisp floral morning air to something cold, metallic, and suffocating.
I stood frozen behind the antique wooden counter, my spray bottle still resting on the floor where it had slipped minutes earlier. Across from me stood Luca Rocco. The dangerous mafia boss who had vanished from my bed five days ago leaving nothing behind but a single, handwritten declaration of ownership on my pillow.
MINE.
Now, he wasn't looking at me anymore. His dark, piercing eyes were fixed entirely on the oversized, matte-black cardboard box sitting on my counter.
"Luca," I breathed, my voice barely a whisper, half-warning, half-pleading. "What is that?"
He didn't answer right away. He moved with the terrifying, predatory grace of a man who owned the city blocks beneath our feet, his heavy dark coat brushing against the display racks of lavender and white peonies. He stepped up to the counter, his broad shoulders blocking out the morning light streaming through the storefront window.
Without breaking eye contact with the box, Luca reached out with long, calloused fingers and peeled back the black satin ribbon.
Inside lay a dozen long-stemmed black roses. Their petals were a deep, midnight obsidian, velvet to the touch, entirely unnatural. Resting directly in the center of the arrangement was a small, cream-colored envelope sealed with a glob of heavy red wax bearing an unfamiliar family crest—a rearing wolf entwined with thorns.
My stomach plummeted. "I didn't order those. I don't know anyone who sends black roses."
"I do," Luca said, his voice dropping into a register so low and chilling it vibrated straight down my spine.
"Whose crest is that?" I demanded, fighting the rising panic in my chest.
Luca picked up the sealed envelope, his knuckles white with suppressed rage. The casual, almost vulnerable confession he had offered moments ago—that he had left my bed out of fear, that he had been terrified of his own obsession—was entirely gone. In its place stood the ruthless capo whose name was whispered in hushed tones across New York’s criminal underworld.
"Vance Moretti," Luca said, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. "My father's former enforcer. A man who thinks that because I carved out my own empire, I left my flank exposed."
"Vance?" I repeated, the name foreign and terrifying. "Why would he send me flowers? I don't even know him!"
"Because he knows me," Luca snapped, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burned. "He watched us at that charity gala. He saw the way I looked at you. In our world, Clara, showing an interest in someone is painting a target on their back. I tried to stay away from you for five days to keep you off his radar. I thought if I ignored what I felt, no one would notice."
He slammed his hand down gently on the counter, making the flower vases rattle.
"And I was wrong. The moment I walked out of your apartment, I handed him a weapon."
The blood drained from my face. I looked from Luca's furious, strained face down to the velvet black roses. "A weapon... against who? Me?"
"Against both of us," Luca said grimly. He tore open the wax seal, pulled out a thick card, and scanned the handwritten message. His jaw tightened so hard I thought bone might crack.
"What does it say?" I whispered, my knees suddenly shaking.
Luca didn't read it aloud. Instead, he flipped the card toward me. Scrawled in harsh, elegant ink were twelve words:
“If the wolf takes a stray lamb, does he expect the pack to leave it alone?”
"He knows," I breathed, terror gripping my throat. "He knows I was with you."
"He doesn't just know," Luca said, his voice dangerously calm—the eerie, dead calm before a hurricane strikes. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket with one hand while gripping the edge of the counter with the other. "He’s testing me. He wants to see if I'll bleed for you."
Before I could process the terrifying weight of his words, the front door chimes rang out again, bright and cheerful, shattering the heavy silence of the shop.
A delivery boy in a bright yellow jacket stepped inside, holding a clipboard. "Package for Clara Vance? Sign here, please."
Luca moved faster than thought. He lunged across the counter, grabbing the clipboard before the courier could blink, his other hand gripping the boy by the collar of his jacket with enough force to lift him off his heels.
"Who gave you this?" Luca demanded, staring down the terrified kid.
"I—I don't know, man! Some guy in an alley three blocks down gave me twenty bucks to drop it off!" the kid stammered, his eyes wide with absolute panic.
"Get out," Luca hissed, shoving the boy toward the door. The courier didn't need to be told twice; he bolted out into the street and sprinted down the sidewalk.
Luca slowly turned back to the small, plain brown parcel resting on the counter.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Luca... don't open it."
He ignored me. With cold, methodical precision, he pulled a small pocket knife from his trousers and sliced through the packing tape. He pulled away the brown paper, lifting the lid of a heavy velvet jewelry box.
Inside rested a diamond-encrusted gold-and-pearl pin.
My breath caught. I reached out, my fingers hovering over the metal. "That... that's my grandmother's brooch. I left it in my jewelry box at home."
Luca's eyes darkened into pitch-black chasms. "They broke into your apartment."
"When?" I whispered, horror washing over me in suffocating waves. "I was only gone for a few hours yesterday running errands for the shop..."
"While you were away," Luca finished for me, his voice dangerously soft, "Moretti’s men walked into your sanctuary, took your personal property, and sent it back to us as a calling card."
He looked up at me, and for the first time since I met him, I saw something in his eyes that terrified me more than his anger.
Guilt.
"You brought this on me," I said, the realization finally slicing through my shock, turning into burning, incandescent fury. I stepped back from the counter, pointing a shaking finger at him. "I didn't ask for a mafia war! I didn't ask you to follow me home from that gala! You walked into my life, turned it upside down, and now lunatic criminals are breaking into my home because of you!"
"You're right," Luca didn't shout back. He didn't defend himself. He just took a step toward me, his voice dropping into a raw, broken plea. "I dragged you into a war zone the moment I let myself look at you twice. But I swear to you, Clara—on everything I am—Moretti will never lay a hand on you."
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"And how are you going to stop him?" I snapped, hot tears finally spilling over my lashes. "By locking me in a safehouse? By fighting a turf war over my dead body?"
"No," Luca said, his expression hardening back into absolute, lethal steel as he pocketed the pin and grabbed my arm gently, pulling me away from the storefront windows. "By ending this tonight. Pack a bag, Clara. You're not staying here another minute."
