Page 1 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

One

Cora

Iam in heaven.

Well, not the real deal. I'm not dead. But I love this time of day. I flip the sign on my flower shop door from open to closed. I toss the scissors down and pick up a broom.

“Sweet Jesus! Finally.” Customers have kept me busy for the last few hours and I’m ready to finish up, grab something to eat and then get to my next job.

With a couple of steps I flick on the radio and in seconds I'm murdering Fleetwood Mac.

To no one's surprise, the new orchids by the back door are too polite to tell me how much I suck.

Figures. But who cares?

"Dreams" pours through the shop speakers while I sweep the last of the stem trimmings into the dustpan. My hips follow the beat while I keep the broom handle tilted toward my mouth like a microphone. There's not a soul in sight to judge me and the gardenias sure as hell aren't going to snitch about me getting my twerk on after hours.

Well, almost closing. There’s about ten minutes until official closing time, but I’m my own boss so screw the rules.

The narrow storefront catches my voice and throws it back with an echo that makes a mediocre alto sound almost passable. Okay, I am being generous about my singing talents, but you gotta be your own fan, right?

Petals & Thorns is drenched in my favorite scent, the sweetness of flowers mixed with the sunshine pouring through my front windows.

Yeah, I know sunshine doesn't technically have a smell, but when closing time rolls around every late afternoon and golden light fills my shop, my senses blend it all together, rose petals, happiness, and hope.

The gardenias own the room right now, shoving their scent across the counter and through the front display like they know they're everyone's favorite. Underneath them I can still catch the clean bite of the soil I repotted this morning, the damp earthiness of it clinging to the creases of my palms. The roses in the cooler add a soft sweetness to the mix, red and blush and cream in graduated heights that I spent twenty minutes getting right because I'm a professional even when nobody's watching.

Late afternoon light slants through the front windows and catches the dust motes floating above the counter, turning them gold against the cream walls. My shop runs warm at this hour, a full day of sunlight through old glass turning the air soft and heavy. My muscles are loose from ten hours of trimming, arranging, and hauling water buckets. I grab a stool and slide off a gardening boot to adjust my sock. The boots are half a size too big, but good enough for working around the shop.

But still…

I rub at my arch. Maybe I should get a better pair, but not today. There’s way too much to do. I shove the boot back on and tidy up the space by the front door.

The temperamental cooler rattles on my way past. I give the lower left panel a kick… the same spot I've been kicking since month two of my lease. It shudders, grunts, and settles back into compliance like it knows better than to push me today. We have an arrangement and neither of us is interested in renegotiating. It works and I don't have to pluck money out of a bank account that has exactly twelve dollars and thirty-nine cents to fix it.

So far, our deal has held.

Finished with the broom, I turn to my second great love of life.

My illustrations.

Two dozen sheets of loose paper sit scattered across a small counter space all filled with new ideas for my newest coloring book. My latest work waits half-finished on the counter that doubles as my desk, drafting table, and dining table.

I thought this one was going to be easy. Not a word I get to throw around often when it comes to my life or my work, but I had hoped. Turns out, I was wrong.

I hold up the half-finished coloring book page featuring an intricate root system and sigh.

“Who is gonna want to color this stuff? Roots? What was I thinking?” I throw a glance over my shoulder at the botanical calendar hanging on the wall behind me.

I have three weeks to finish twenty more illustrations if I want to meet my self-imposed deadline.

“No way anyone is gonna love this.”

The next month of Ramen noodle dinners flashes through my head. If I can't get this right, all my work will be for nothing and my dismal flower sales will have to keep me afloat.

I press my palms against my thighs and rub them over my jeans.

“Breathe, Cora. Sunshine and hope, remember? Not doom and gloom.”