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CHAPTER 1
ELI
The key slides into the lock with a satisfying click and I push open the door, breathing in the fragrant perfume of my little flower shop. Sunlight slants through the front windows, casting a golden glow over buckets of vibrant blossoms in every hue. Roses, lilies, daisies, peonies - a rainbow of petals and greenery just waiting to be transformed into works of art.
This is my happy place, my sanctuary from the gritty chaos of the city streets outside. When I'm elbow-deep in an arrangement, surrounded by beauty and life, everything else just fades away. It's like I can pour all my hopes and dreams into each bloom, crafting love stories and celebrations out of stems and leaves.
Sure, it's not the most practical career for a 26-year-old guy in New York. My childhood best friend Sophia is always on me to pursue my art, saying I'm wasting my talent in this "dinky little shop." But something about being a florist just feels right, like I'm tapping into a well of joy and creativity that I never knew I had. Each time a customer lights up at one of my arrangements, I get this warm glow in my chest, knowing I made their day a little brighter.
I'm humming tunelessly to myself as I start setting up for the morning, trimming stems and plucking withered leaves. The tiny bell over the door jingles and I glance up, my retail smile already stretching across my face. But the expression freezes as I take in the three burly men shouldering their way into my shop, their faces set in identical scowls. Uh oh. These guys definitely aren't here for a pretty bouquet.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light and friendly despite the sudden hammering of my pulse.
The one in front, a brute with slicked-back hair and a jagged scar bisecting his right eyebrow, steps forward and braces his meaty hands on the counter. He looks me up and down with open disdain, like I'm something unpleasant he just scraped off his shoe.
"You Eli Bloom?" he grunts.
I resist the urge to swallow nervously. "That's me. What can I do for you?"
Scarface exchanges a loaded glance with his cronies. "You can start by paying up. This is our territory now, and we expect a little...contribution from all the businesses on this block. For protection, see?"
My stomach drops into my scuffed sneakers. Protection money? From the freaking mafia? I've heard rumors of the crime families shaking down local shops, but I never thought they'd bother with my tiny little operation. I'm so far from a threat it's almost laughable.
Still, if there's one thing growing up in this neighborhood has taught me, it's that you don't show fear to bullies like this. It only makes them squeeze harder. So I square my shoulders and lift my chin, meeting Scarface's cold gaze head-on.
"I appreciate the offer," I say, choosing my words carefully. "But I don't need any extra protection. My shop is doing just fine as it is."
Scarface barks out a harsh laugh, the sound making me flinch despite my best efforts. "You don't seem to understand, kid. This ain't a request. You pay us, or bad things start happening to this pretty little shop of yours."
As if on cue, one of his goons reaches out and casually knocks over a metal bucket of sunflowers, sending them scattering across the tile floor. I suck in a sharp breath, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. The urge to drop to my knees and gather up the poor, crushed blooms is almost overwhelming.
"Please," I manage through gritted teeth. "I'm just trying to run an honest business here. I don't want any trouble."
"Trouble's all you're going to get if you don't shut up and pay what you owe," Scarface growls.
Before I can react, he snatches up a delicate glass vase brimming with white roses and smashes it against the counter. I flinch back as shattered crystal and bruised petals explode across the surface, glittering in the golden sunlight that now feels like a mockery.
Tears prickle hot at the backs of my eyes but I blink them ruthlessly away. I won't give these thugs the satisfaction of seeing me crumple. Even as they systematically destroy my shop, upending buckets and stomping on flowers with cruel, methodical intent, I hold myself stiff and still, my nails cutting bloody half-moons into my palms.
Just as Scarface raises a meaty fist, clearly intending to add a more personal touch to his communication, the bell over the door jangles again. All four of us whip our heads around to stare at the tall, dark figure filling the entrance, the morning light haloing him from behind so I can only make out the sharp angles of his silhouette.
The temperature in the room seems to plummet as the man steps forward, his expensive leather shoes crunching ominously over the carpet of broken stems and glittering shards. As he moves into the light, I get my first real look at him, and my breath catches in my throat.
He's devastatingly handsome, with chiseled features that look like they were carved from marble - high cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed with dark stubble, full lips pressed into a grim line. His thick black hair is slicked back from a widow's peak, not a strand out of place. But it's his eyes that really grab me, fathomless and black as night, their intensity searing me to the bone.
He's dressed like an old-school gangster in a crisp black suit and blood-red tie, the fabric straining across his broad shoulders and powerful chest. Everything about him screams danger, from the coiled tension in his muscles to the lethal aura shimmering around him like heat haze off asphalt. This is a man who's no stranger to violence, a predator to the core.
The goons shrink back as he prowls forward, their cocksure swagger withering under his icy stare. Even Scarface looks suddenly nervous, his fists lowering to his sides.
"What's going on here, gentlemen?" the dark stranger asks, his voice a low, smoky rumble that prickles down my spine like the drag of a rose thorn. There's a subtle threat woven through the polite words, a steel fist wrapped in a velvet glove.
Scarface clears his throat and straightens up, trying to reclaim some of his former bluster. "Just having a little chat with Mr. Bloom here about his...financial obligations."
The stranger cocks his head, those obsidian eyes flicking over the carnage of my shop before locking onto my face. I feel that gaze like a physical touch, a trail of sparks igniting in its wake.
"Is that so," he murmurs. It's not a question. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're destroying an honest man's livelihood for no good reason."
Scarface's pasty face goes even whiter, his scar standing out in stark relief. "Look, we don't want no trouble with you, Mr. Caruso. We're just following orders, yeah? The boss said every shop on this block pays up or gets a little reminder of who's in charge around here."
