The world of Alessandro Morano was built on control. Control of his territory, his businesses, his men, and most importantly, himself. Every action was calculated, every word measured, every emotion ruthlessly suppressed. Emotion was a vulnerability, and vulnerabilities got people killed.
He sat in the back of a blacked-out Range Rover, its engine a nearly silent purr as it navigated the morning traffic towards Williamsburg. The financial reports on his tablet were a blur of numbers that usually brought him a sense of order. Today, they failed to capture his focus.
His father's words, raspy and weak from the hospital bed the night before, echoed in his mind. "The Bianchi girl… Marco's daughter. Sophia."
Alex had gone still. "What about her?"
"The Volkovs… they are getting bold. They see my sickness as a weakness. Your weakness." A coughing fit had wracked the old man's body. "They look for leverage. Something personal. Someone… unprotected."
A cold fury had settled in Alex's gut. The Volkov brat, Igor, was a savage, all brute force and no strategy. He'd make a move on something soft, something symbolic, to prove a point.
"The flower shop," his father had whispered. "It's an easy target. A message that would be… heard."
The message was clear: We can touch anything, even the things you have ignored for years. Your world is not secure.
Marco Bianchi had been a minor creditor to the family operation decades ago, a small, clean business occasionally used for laundering payments or sending coded messages through flower arrangements. He was paid handsomely for his discretion and his silence. He had been left in peace for years, a forgotten relic of a bygone era. But to a thug like Igor Volkov, the Bianchi name was a footnote in Morano history—and that made it a perfect weapon.
"I will handle it," Alex had said, his voice leaving no room for discussion.
And so, the calculation began. The most efficient way to neutralize the threat was to make it clear that Sophia Bianchi was under his protection. A phone call wouldn't suffice. A message delivered by an underling could be misconstrued or tested. This required a personal appearance. A statement.
The decision to go himself was a risk. It would draw attention. It would raise questions, especially from the woman herself. But a calculated risk was the bedrock of his power. He needed to see her, to assess the vulnerability himself, to understand what exactly he was now obligated to protect.
The Rover pulled to a stop a block away from Bianchi Blooms. "Here,boss?" his driver and head of security, Leo, asked, his eyes constantly scanning the street in the rearview mirror.
"Here. Wait. I won't be long." Leo's eyebrow twitched,the only sign of his surprise. The Don did not make personal visits to florists.
Alex stepped out onto the sidewalk, the morning sun feeling alien on his skin. He was a creature of boardrooms, dimly lit restaurants, and the night. This neighborhood, with its trendy coffee shops and exposed brick, was not his territory. He felt exposed, and he hated it.
He saw the shop. Bianchi Blooms. It was exactly as he'd imagined from the surveillance photos: quaint, charming, and painfully vulnerable. The large window offered a perfect view of the interior. Anyone could walk past and see her. Anyone could walk in.
The bell on the door chimed as he entered.
The smell hit him first. It was overwhelming. A cloying, sweet explosion of perfume. Flowers. Everywhere. It was the antithesis of his world of gun oil, expensive cigars, and cold, clean fear. For a disorienting second, he felt off-balance.
And then he saw her.
Sophia Bianchi.
She had her back to him, her form silhouetted against the light from the window. She was taller than he'd expected, willowy but with a strength in the set of her shoulders. Her dark hair was pulled back, but loose strands curled at the nape of her neck. She was humming softly, a faint, melodic sound that was swallowed by the room.
She turned.
The file photos did her no justice. They captured her features—the large, dark eyes, the full mouth, the elegant line of her neck—but they completely missed the essence of her. The warmth. The light. She had a quiet, unassuming beauty that was somehow more potent than any of the polished socialites he was often paired with. She was real.
He saw the exact moment she recognized him. The color drained from her face. Her eyes, a warm brown he now saw, widened not with admiration, but with pure, unvarnished fear. It was a look he was accustomed to, but seeing it on her face sent an unexpected and unwelcome twist of something akin to guilt through him. This was what his world did. It inspired terror in innocent people.
He advanced, his training taking over. Scan the environment. One exit behind him, one likely in the back. No visible threats. The only variable was her.
"Sophia."
He said her name to establish dominance, to show he knew exactly who she was. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was steadier than he'd anticipated. "Alessandro." She tried to keep the wall of formality up. Good. She had spine.
He almost smiled when he told her he needed a bouquet. It was absurd. Alessandro Morano, ordering flowers. But the lie was necessary. He couldn't walk in and say, 'A Russian psychopath might try to kidnap you to get to me, so I'm here to mark my territory.'
"For a funeral," he said.
The fear in her eyes intensified. She understood the subtext. The world she feared was speaking its language to her, and she was fluent enough to be terrified. Her apology was automatic, hollow. She was playing her part well, the frightened civilian trying to appease the monster.
He watched her work. Her hands, though he detected a fine tremor, were skilled and graceful. She moved with an innate knowledge of her craft. She chose the flowers he'd pointed to—the lilies and roses. The irony of the combination wasn't lost on him either. Purity and blood. The story of his life.
He told her he would wait. He needed to observe, to understand the rhythm of her shop, to see if any outside eyes were watching. Leaning against the counter, he sent a quick, coded text to Leo: 'All clear. Stand by.'
He watched her. The nervous set of her mouth. The way she bit her lower lip in concentration. The quick, furtive glances she threw his way when she thought he wasn't looking. She was terrified, yes, but there was a resilience there. A Bianchi stubbornness. She wasn't collapsing; she was working through her fear. He found himself… intrigued.
Her question startled him. "Was it someone… close?"
It was a brave question, a probing one. Stupid, but brave. He gave her the truth, wrapped in a warning. "An associate. His choices caught up with him." Let her hear the finality in that. Let her understand the consequences of the world she's being dragged into.
When the arrangement was finished, it was jarringly beautiful. A piece of art born of lies and threat. He paid her too much because it was what was expected of him. Because it reinforced the power dynamic. Because it was easier.
Then, as he took the bouquet, his fingers brushed against hers.
The jolt was instantaneous and electric. It was a shock to his system, a sudden, violent crack in the ice he perpetually maintained around himself. It was just skin, a fraction of a second, but it felt like a brand. Her skin was soft, warm from her work. He saw her jerk her hand back, her eyes flying to his, wide with a shock that mirrored his own.
For a single, unguarded moment, they just stared at each other, connected by that fleeting, shocking point of contact. The calculation, the plan, the threat assessment—all of it vanished, replaced by a raw, startling awareness of her not as a liability, but as a woman.
He recovered first, his mask slamming back into place. He had to leave. The mission was accomplished. The risk had been taken. Any longer, and he'd risk saying or doing something uncalculated.
"Goodbye, Sophia Bianchi," he said. He used her full name again, but this time, it felt different. It
felt less like a statement and more like a vow.
He left the shop, the cheerful bell a stark contrast to the turmoil in his chest. The scent of her flowers clung to his suit. He slid into the back of the waiting Rover, placing the morbid bouquet on the seat beside him.
"Where to, boss?" Leo asked, eyeing the flowers with open curiosity.
Alex didn't answer immediately. He stared out the window at the innocuous little shop. The calculation was complete, but the variables had changed. The primary threat was still Igor Volkov. Sophia was still a vulnerability to be secured.
But now there was a new variable. One he hadn't factored into his equations. One that was far more dangerous than any Russian brute.
The variable was her. And the unsettling, inconvenient, and entirely unpredictable spark he'd felt at her touch.
"The office," he finally said, his voice cold and steady once more. "And get rid of these."
He gestured to the flowers, a beautiful lie he no longer had any use for. The real game had just begun.