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Mr. Caruso. The name slots into place with a sickening lurch. I've heard whispers about the Carusos, the most feared mafia family in the city. Their brutality is legendary, their reach limitless. And now one of them is standing in my ruined shop, those pitiless eyes raking over me like black flames.
Nico Caruso, I remember belatedly. The prodigal son, freshly returned from a long exile to take his place at his father's right hand. People say he's even more ruthless than the old man, a cold-blooded killer without a shred of mercy in his dark soul.
And he's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to figure out, that cruel mouth tipping up at one corner. "Well, it seems there's been a misunderstanding. This shop belongs to me now. And I don't take kindly to people messing with my things."
Wait, what? My head is spinning, trying to keep up with this dizzying turn of events. How can my shop belong to him? I've poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this place, building it up from nothing. He can't just waltz in and claim it, mafia prince or no.
I open my mouth to protest, but Nico silences me with a sharp look, those obsidian eyes frosting over with warning. Unease prickles through me, warring with the strange, unwelcome thrill that dances up my spine at the intensity of his focus.
Scarface and his buddies exchange uneasy glances, clearly weighing their options. After a long, tense moment, Scarface bobs his head in a jerky nod, conceding the field. "Our apologies, Mr. Caruso. We didn't know this was your place. It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't." Nico's voice is soft as silk, but the menace in it could cut glass. "Now get out of my sight before I lose my patience."
They scurry out like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the bell jingling wildly in their wake. And then it's just me and Nico, the air between us practically crackling with tension. I'm suddenly hyperaware of every detail - the way his suit hugs the lean lines of his body, the spicy, masculine scent of his cologne, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place like a butterfly on a cork board.
"I...thank you," I manage, my voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. I curse myself for sounding like a swooning damsel. "For stepping in. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along."
Nico prowls closer, each measured step eating up the distance between us. This near, he's even more imposing, towering over me with that broad-shouldered bulk. I have to crane my neck back to hold his gaze, my heartbeat tap-dancing wildly against my ribs.
"I didn't do it for you," he says bluntly. There's no kindness in that beautiful, brutal face. "Like I said, this shop belongs to me now. And I protect what's mine."
I flinch at the casual possessiveness in his tone. "How can you just decide that? I've worked my ass off to make this place what it is. You can't march in and take it away from me!"
His eyes narrow and I immediately regret my flash of temper. This man could snap me in half without breaking a sweat. What the hell am I thinking, provoking him like that?
But I can't back down, not when it comes to the most important thing in my life. This shop is all I have, my entire world. Without it, I'm just another lost soul drifting in this concrete jungle.
To my shock, Nico's lips quirk in what might almost be a smile, there and gone so fast I almost think I imagined it. "Relax, Sunshine. I'm not here to steal your precious flowers. But I am going to be your new landlord. And your personal bodyguard, effective immediately."
I gape at him, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Is he serious? A notorious mafia boss, babysitting me and my little shop? The idea is so absurd I almost want to laugh.
But there's nothing amusing about the look on his face or the grim set of that cruelly sensual mouth. He's not asking for my cooperation or approval. He's stating facts, laying out my new reality with all the warmth of a prison warden.
I wanted a protector, someone to keep the wolves from my door. But staring into Nico Caruso's frigid black eyes, I'm suddenly terrified I've just traded the frying pan for the fire.
CHAPTER 2
NICO
The moment I step into the flower shop, the cloying stench of crushed petals and greenery assaults my nose. It's a sickeningly sweet odor, undercut with the sharp tang of spilled water and the muskier tones of potting soil. The tile floor is a riot of color, like a kaleidoscope shattered across the surface - brilliant reds and pinks, buttery yellows, royal purples, all muddied and dulled by careless boots.
My lip curls in disgust as I take in the trio of thugs hovering over a slender figure in a green apron. Bianchi's boys, still too stupid to realize they're pissing on the wrong patch of turf. They've always been cocky little pricks, riding on the coattails of their boss's fading reputation. But messing with one of my fronts? That's a fatal mistake, and they're about to learn it the hard way.
My gaze cuts to the florist - Eli, I remember from the briefing. He's got balls, I'll give him that, glaring defiantly up at the Bianchi enforcers even as they loom over him. There's no fear in those vivid blue eyes, just a surprising spark of defiance, like a cornered alley cat unsheathing its claws.
I feel my eyebrow quirk up, my interest piqued despite myself. It's not often I meet someone with a spine in this business. Most people, they see the cut of my suit and the cold promise in my eyes, and they crumple like wet tissue paper, babbling and pleading for mercy they won't get.
But not this kid. Oh, he's wary, I can see it in the taut line of his shoulders and the white-knuckled grip he's got on the edge of the counter. But there's a core of steel in him, something unbending and unbreakable. It's almost...admirable, in a naive, reckless sort of way.
Too bad for him, that kind of backbone is a liability in my world. It paints a target on your back, invites all sorts of trouble from people who see it as a challenge. And trouble is the last thing I need right now, with the feds sniffing around and the Bianchis getting bolder by the day.
I let my power precede me as I stalk into the shop, the soles of my Ferragamos crunching ominously over the litter of ravaged flowers. The temperature seems to plunge ten degrees as the goons register my presence, their cocksure posturing withering like frost-bitten blooms.
I see the moment recognition dawns, their faces draining of color as they put a name to my face. Nico Caruso, the prodigal son, the devil in Armani. I've cultivated quite the reputation since my return to the city, and it's always gratifying to see it having the desired effect.
"What's going on here, gentlemen?" I ask, my tone deceptively mild. The words emerge in a low rasp, rough with the edge of violence I can never quite shake.
The leader, a side of beef with more scar tissue than functioning brain cells, pastes on a sickly smile. "Mr. Caruso, what an unexpected pleasure. We were just having a friendly chat with young Mr. Bloom here about his...financial obligations."
