The bell above the door chimed its cheerful, familiar tune, a sound that usually settled Sophia's nerves. But today, it felt like a taunt. The air in Bianchi Blooms still felt charged, stubbornly holding onto the lingering, expensive scent of sandalwood and bergamot. Alessandro Morano's presence had polluted her sanctuary, and no amount of lavender spray could purify it.
Her hands, usually so steady, trembled as she tried to focus on the day's ledger. The numbers blurred on the page. All she could see was the piercing darkness of his eyes, the effortless way he had dominated the space, the chilling finality of the word funeral.
And the money. The stack of bills in the register felt like a lead weight. Blood money. Payment for a bouquet that felt less like a tribute and more like a threat.
A sharp, rhythmic tapping on the glass door broke her reverie. Chloe stood outside, her face a cartoonish mask of concern behind the glass, holding up two large coffees and a paper bag that undoubtedly contained pastries. Sophia's emergency protocol.
With a sigh that felt like it came from her very soul, Sophia unlocked the door.
"Okay, spill. Right now. You sounded like a ghost on the phone," Chloe announced, sweeping in and placing the coffees on the counter. She took one look at Sophia's face and her dramatic urgency softened into genuine worry. "Oh, honey. What happened?"
The story tumbled out of Sophia in a rushed, hushed torrent—Alex's arrival, his imposing presence, the funeral request, the overwhelming sense of danger, the money. Chloe listened, her eyes widening with each detail, her hand flying to her mouth.
"He what?" she hissed when Sophia finished. "Alessandro Morano? The Alessandro Morano? Just waltzed in here for flowers? Soph, that's not normal. That's not a coincidence." She grabbed Sophia's icy hands. "This is bad. This is really, really bad."
"I know," Sophia whispered, the admission making her feel weak. "But what do I do? Call the police and say what? A handsome man was creepy and paid too much for lilies?"
"Yes!" Chloe insisted, then deflated. "No. You're right. They'd laugh." She paced the small aisle between the hydrangeas and the orchids. "Okay. New plan. You close early. You come stay with me. We… we figure this out."
"And then what?" Sophia's voice rose, edged with a frustration that surprised them both. "Do I never come back? Let him scare me out of my father's shop? Let him win?"
The words hung in the air. Let him win. It was the core of it. This shop was more than a business; it was her father's soul.
A memory surfaced, vivid and warm amidst the cold fear. She was eight years old, sitting on this very counter, her legs swinging. Her father, Marco, his big, gentle hands carefully wrapping a bride's bouquet, was humming an old Italian folk song.
"Papà, why do people always buy flowers for funerals?" she'd asked. "They're so sad."
Marco had stopped his humming and smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Mi piccola, it is not for the person who is gone. It is for the people who are left. The flowers say what words cannot. They say 'I'm sorry,' 'I'll miss you,' 'I remember your beauty.' They are a promise that life continues, even in the face of death."
He had tucked a single white rose behind her ear. "We are not just florists, Sophia. We are guardians of memory. We help people speak the language of the heart."
The memory was a punch to the gut. Her father, a man who believed in the language of the heart, had lived in fear of the Moranos. He had accepted their "protection" money with shame in his eyes, all to keep this—his legacy, his daughter—safe.
And now, the heir to that shadow had walked in and handed her a stack of cash for a funeral arrangement. The irony was cruel and terrifying.
"Soph?" Chloe's voice was gentle. "Where'd you go?"
"To my father," Sophia said, her voice steadier now. "He built this place to bring people comfort. To bring beauty. I won't let Alessandro Morano turn it into a… a transaction in his bloody world."
A determined fire began to flicker in Chloe's eyes. "Okay. Then we fight. But we fight smart." She grabbed her coffee. "First, we deposit that money. It's not a gift; it's evidence. Second, I'm your new unofficial security guard. I'm here at open and close. And third," she said, pointing a finger at Sophia, "you tell me everything, every single time something weird happens. No more trying to handle it alone."
Gratitude, warm and fierce, washed over Sophia, momentarily displacing the fear. She had a fortress in her friend.
"Deal," she said, managing a small, genuine smile.
For the next hour, they worked side-by-side, the simple normalcy of tidying the shop a balm on Sophia's frayed nerves. But as Chloe left, promising to return at five sharp, the silence of the shop descended again.
Sophia walked to the back room where a single, faded photograph was tucked on a shelf next to bags of fertilizer. It was of her father, young and smiling, standing proudly in front of the shop on its opening day. Bianchi Blooms was written on the window in fresh, gold lettering.
She touched the glass over his face. "I won't let them take it,Papà," she whispered into the quiet. "I promise."
The vow felt brave. But as she locked the door behind her, checking the street twice before stepping out, she couldn't shake the feeling that a promise made to a ghost was a fragile shield against a living, breathing monster.
The legacy of petals felt infinitely delicate against the world of stone that Alessandro Morano represented.