Chapter 3: Blood on the Blooms
The plan had been clean, like always. Viktor Kuznetsov, predictable as Luca had profiled, was leaving his usual late-night haunt in Brighton Beach, three sheets to the wind, reeking of stale vodka and cheap perfume. The alleyway chosen for the encounter was dimly lit, shielded from the main street, offering multiple egress points. Luca preferred quiet, almost surgical removals. No witnesses, no complications.
Tonight, however, the universe had spat on his preferences.
Kuznetsov, despite his inebriation, had been twitchier than usual. As Luca moved from the shadows, prepared to make it quick, a second man—unforeseen, unprofiled—had materialized from a recessed doorway further down the alley. A bodyguard, perhaps, or simply a cohort wise enough to hang back. This one was sober, sharp-eyed, and fast.
The ensuing chaos was a blur of desperate motion. Luca had taken down Kuznetsov as planned, a silenced shot ensuring the primary objective was met. But the second man was on him instantly, a feral snarl ripping from his throat, a glint of steel in his hand. Luca sidestepped the first wild slash, a grunt escaping him as he delivered a brutal elbow strike to the man's temple. The man staggered but didn't fall, his eyes blazing with fury. He lunged again.
Luca felt a searing, white-hot pain tear through his left side, just above his hip, before he could fully counter. He registered the sickening warmth of blood almost instantly. With a guttural roar, fueled by adrenaline and a cold, desperate rage, Luca disarmed his attacker with a bone-jarring wrist lock and silenced him permanently with his own weapon.
Two down. But he was hit. And the alley, no longer silent, was now a liability. He could hear distant shouts, the shriek of a car alarm triggered by their struggle. No time to be meticulous. No time for a clean exit.
Clutching his bleeding side, his breath coming in ragged gasps, Luca melted back into the deeper shadows, forcing himself into a steady, if pain-filled, jog. He needed to get off these streets, find a place to hole up, assess the damage. Every step sent jolts of agony through his torso, and the wetness spreading beneath his hand was terrifyingly prolific. He could feel his strength ebbing, his vision intermittently blurring at the edges.
He navigated the labyrinth of backstreets by instinct, his mind a maelstrom of pain, tactical assessment, and self-recrimination. Sloppy. He'd gotten sloppy, or unlucky. It didn't matter which. The result was the same. He could feel the pursuit, even if he couldn't see it – a prickling on his nape, the heightened sense of unseen eyes. The Russians would be swarming soon, and if any local patrol cops stumbled onto the scene, the situation would escalate exponentially.
He needed cover. Now.
He risked a glance at a street sign: a neighborhood he wasn't intimately familiar with, but not entirely alien. He remembered passing through these quieter, more residential streets on his way to the East River. And then, a flicker of memory, incongruous and unwelcome even in his desperate state: the flower shop. That defiant burst of color he'd seen days ago. It had been around here, hadn't it? A place so antithetical to his current reality, it might just be the perfect, unexpected refuge.
He stumbled onward, his tailored suit now clinging to him, dark with more than just shadow. Each breath was a labor. The blood loss was making him lightheaded. He leaned against a brick wall for a moment, fighting a wave of nausea, then pushed himself off, driven by the primal urge to survive.
And there it was. "Hart's Blooms." The gentle, almost whimsical sign seemed to mock him. Lights were still on inside, a soft, warm glow spilling onto the pavement. He could make out a figure moving within, a woman. Perfect. Or perfectly disastrous.
He didn't have the luxury of choice.
With the last dregs of his adrenaline-fueled strength, Luca moved towards the door. He saw the woman inside, her back to him, reaching up to adjust something on a high shelf. She was humming, a soft, melodic sound that felt like it belonged to another world entirely. He tried the handle. Locked. Of course.
He couldn't risk breaking glass, too much noise. He pressed his face closer to the window, peering through a gap in a display of ferns. She was turning, starting to move towards the front of the shop. He had seconds. He rapped sharply on the glass, once, twice, hoping to startle her into opening it out of reflex or curiosity before fear could take root.
Inside, Emilia Hart was just about to turn the "Open" sign to "Closed." The day had been long but fulfilling. She was looking forward to a cup of tea and the quiet of her small apartment. The sharp raps on the window startled her, making her jump. Her heart leaped into her throat. It was late; she wasn't expecting any more customers.
She hesitated, peering towards the door. She could see a tall, dark silhouette against the muted glow of the streetlights. Something about the urgency of the knock, the way the figure pressed close to the glass, sent a shiver of unease down her spine. "We're closing," she called out, her voice trembling slightly, though she tried to keep it firm.
"Please," a low, rough voice came from the other side of the door, strained and urgent. "I need help."
Emilia's first instinct was caution. This was New York, after all. But the plea, raw and tight with a pain she couldn't quite decipher, tugged at something in her. Against her better judgment, against the rising tide of apprehension, she found herself moving towards the door. Perhaps it was an accident, someone hurt…
She undid the latch, opening the door just a crack, her hand still protectively on the knob. "What is it? Are you—"
The door was shoved inward with surprising force, sending her stumbling back. The man filled the doorway, a looming shadow, then he was inside, pushing the door shut behind him with a decisive thud and fumbling with the lock.
Emilia's breath hitched. He was big, dressed in a dark, expensive-looking suit that was… wet? No, not wet. Darkly stained. He turned, and the soft light of the shop fell upon his face. It was a harsh, striking face, pale now, etched with pain and something far more dangerous. His eyes, dark and intense, scanned the shop in a swift, predatory assessment before landing on her.
"Don't scream," he rasped, his voice a low growl. One hand was pressed tightly to his side, and it was then she saw it clearly: the crimson seeping between his fingers, dripping onto the pristine, swept floor of her sanctuary. Blood. So much blood.
Her mind struggled to reconcile the scene: the tranquil beauty of her flowers, the gentle scent of roses and damp earth, and this man, emanating violence and pain, bleeding on her polished wood floors. A small, terrified sound escaped her lips.
"Please," he said again, his voice softer this time, but no less commanding. "Just… stay quiet. Lock the door. Turn off the main lights. Now."
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Emilia. This was not someone who had simply had an accident. This was something else, something terrifying. But his eyes, despite their intensity, held a desperate, hunted look that, even in her fear, she couldn't entirely ignore. And the blood… he was losing a lot of blood.
Her nurturing instincts, deeply ingrained, warred with her primal urge to flee. But where would she go? He was between her and the door to the small back room. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely think.
"The lights," he repeated, his voice strained. He swayed slightly, and his free hand shot out to brace himself against a display of white lilies, their perfect petals trembling with the impact. A smear of red stained their pristine surfaces.
Blood on the blooms. The image seared itself into Emilia's mind.
Galvanized by a strange mix of terror and a desperate, almost clinical need to regain some semblance of control, Emilia moved. Her legs felt like lead, but she forced them to obey. She fumbled for the main light switch near the counter, plunging the front of the shop into a deeper gloom, illuminated now only by the emergency exit sign and the faint glow from the street filtering through the blinds she hadn't yet fully closed.
"The lock," he grunted, his gaze fixed on the front door.
She nodded, her throat too tight to speak, and her trembling fingers managed to turn the deadbolt. The click sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence, broken only by his ragged breathing and the frantic thumping of her own heart.
He let out a shuddering sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if a vital string had been cut. He slid down the wall, hissing in pain as his wounded side made contact, until he was half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor near the lilies. His face was slick with sweat, his pallor alarming in the dim light.
"Who are you?" Emilia finally managed to whisper, her voice hoarse. "What do you want?" She clutched a heavy ceramic watering can, its weight a small, inadequate comfort in her hand.
Luca's vision swam. The cloying sweetness of the flowers was overwhelming, mixing with the metallic tang of his own blood. He fought to stay conscious, to assess the woman. She was terrified, that much was clear, but she hadn't screamed, hadn't tried to bolt. Yet. He could see the fear in her wide, expressive eyes – eyes the color of warm honey, he registered disconnectedly. She was small, delicate-looking, like one of the fragile blooms surrounding them. Not a physical threat. But fear made people unpredictable.
"Name's Luca," he managed, each word an effort. "Ran into some… trouble." An understatement of monumental proportions. "Need a place to… for a bit. Until things quiet down outside." He risked a quick glance towards the front window, his ears straining for any sound of pursuit. Distant sirens wailed, but they seemed to be moving away, not towards them. For now.
"You're bleeding everywhere," Emilia stated the obvious, her voice still shaky but with a new note creeping in – something that sounded almost like… concern? Or perhaps just a practical observation from someone who clearly valued cleanliness.
"Sharp observation," Luca muttered, trying to apply more pressure to the wound. His hand was slick and sticky. He fumbled inside his jacket, his fingers clumsy, searching for the small emergency kit he always carried. It contained gauze, antiseptic wipes, a suture needle and thread – tools for a quick patch-up, not major surgery. This felt like it might need more than a quick patch-up.
Emilia watched him, her initial paralysis giving way to a flurry of conflicting emotions. He was a criminal, clearly. Dangerous. He'd forced his way into her shop, terrified her. Yet, the sight of his fumbling, blood-soaked hands, the raw pain etched on his face, the sheer vulnerability of his current state… it plucked at a chord deep within her. The instinct to help, to heal, was so deeply ingrained it was almost a reflex.
"Is it… a gunshot?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"Knife," he grunted, finally locating the small, flat kit. He tried to rip open a packet of gauze with his teeth, his movements jerky. "Cleaner. Usually."
He was going to bleed out or pass out on her floor if he didn't get it packed soon. The pragmatic part of Emilia's brain, the part that knew how to save wilting plants and mend broken stems, took over.
"Let me," she said, surprising herself as much as him.
Luca's head snapped up, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What?"
"Let me help you," Emilia repeated, taking a tentative step closer. She set the watering can down, a deliberate gesture of non-aggression, though her heart still hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I… I know some basic first aid. From when my grandmother was ill." It was a half-truth. Elara had taught her many things, including how to handle minor cuts and injuries that were common in a garden. This was far from minor.
Luca stared at her, his mind clouded by pain and blood loss, trying to gauge her sincerity. Was it a trick? A way to get closer, to take advantage of his weakened state? But her eyes, though still wide with fear, held a flicker of something else – compassion, perhaps. Or maybe she just didn't want him dying in her pristine shop. He was too weak to argue effectively, and his own attempts to staunch the flow were failing.
"Why?" he rasped.
Emilia swallowed hard. "Because you're bleeding to death on my floor," she said, a touch of asperity entering her tone. "And despite current appearances, I'd rather that didn't happen." She gestured towards the back room. "I have a cleaner sink back there. And more supplies. Water. Soap."
He hesitated for another long moment, his gaze boring into hers. The sounds of the city seemed to press in on them – a car horn, the distant rumble of a subway train, the ever-present, faint wail of sirens that could mean anything or nothing. Finally, with a groan, he nodded, a barely perceptible movement. "Fine. But no sudden moves. And if you try anything…" His voice trailed off, but the unspoken threat hung heavy in the fragrant air.
"I understand," Emilia said, though her understanding was that she was caught in a waking nightmare. She took a deep breath. "Can you stand?"
With her reluctant assistance, Luca managed to get to his feet, leaning heavily on her smaller frame. Emilia half-supported, half-dragged him towards the small back room, which served as her workspace, storage, and tea station. The journey was short, but every step was an agonizing ordeal for Luca, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. Emilia could feel the heat radiating from his body, the tremors of pain that wracked him. The metallic scent of his blood was sharp and sickeningly sweet, a horrifying counterpoint to the earthy fragrance of her workroom.
The back room was small, crammed with shelves of vases, ribbons, wires, tools, and bags of potting soil. A sturdy wooden workbench stood in the center, and in one corner was a deep, old-fashioned utility sink.
"Here," Emilia said, guiding him to sit on a low stool. "Let me see."
Her hands, when she reached for the edges of his ruined jacket and shirt, were surprisingly steady. Years of handling delicate petals and thorny stems had given her a gentle, precise touch. As she carefully peeled back the blood-soaked fabric, exposing the ragged, still oozing gash in his side, she had to fight back a wave of nausea. It was deep, angry-looking, and far beyond her limited expertise.
"This is bad," she whispered, her face paling. "You need a doctor. Stitches, proper ones."
"No doctors," Luca gritted out, his eyes squeezed shut against a fresh wave of pain. "No hospitals. Just… stop the bleeding."
Emilia knew this was a dangerous path. Harboring a fugitive, aiding a criminal… But looking at his pale, sweat-sheened face, the sheer animal pain in his eyes, the stark reality of his lifeblood staining her floor, her hands… the abstract notion of legality seemed to fade against the immediate, visceral need to help.
"Alright," she said, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Alright. I'll do what I can."
She gathered supplies: clean cloths from her personal locker, antiseptic solution she used for sterilizing tools, her grandmother's old first-aid tin which contained more comprehensive supplies than Luca's small kit. Her movements became more fluid, more purposeful. She was in her element here, in a way – tending to something broken, trying to coax life back from the brink.
She cleaned the wound as best she could, her touch surprisingly gentle despite the grim task. Luca flinched and hissed, his body tensing under her hands, but he didn't stop her. He watched her through narrowed, pain-filled eyes, his expression unreadable. The air in the small room grew thick with the smell of antiseptic, blood, and the ever-present fragrance of flowers that seemed to cling to Emilia like an aura.
Emilia worked with focused intensity, packing the wound with gauze, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was acutely aware of him – his size, his coiled tension, the latent power in his battered body. She was terrified, yet a strange sort of calm had settled over her. There was a life here, however violent and unwelcome, that needed saving. And for reasons she couldn't articulate, she found herself committed to that act.
"Hold this tight," she instructed, pressing a thick pad of gauze against the wound and placing his own hand over it. "Pressure. As hard as you can."
While he did that, she quickly cleaned the blood from her hands and from the floor as best she could with a cloth and a bucket of water. The water turned a sickening pink, then red. Each drop that had fallen on her pristine floor felt like a violation, a stain not just on the wood but on the peace of her sanctuary.
She found an old, clean linen apron of her grandmother's and began tearing it into strips. "I'm going to try and bind it," she told him. "It might help keep the pressure even."
Luca didn't speak, just watched her, his dark eyes following her every move. The pain was a relentless, throbbing fire in his side, but a degree of clarity was returning as the initial shock of the blood loss subsided slightly. He was in a flower shop. A woman who smelled of earth and rain and things he couldn't name was tending to his wound. The absurdity of it was almost laughable, if he had the strength to laugh.
She was surprisingly capable, her hands deft and sure. She was scared – he could see it in the slight tremor that still ran through her, the way she avoided direct eye contact for too long – but she wasn't panicking. There was a quiet strength about her, a resilience he hadn't expected. It was unsettling. Softness, in his world, was usually a synonym for weakness. This felt… different.
As Emilia carefully wrapped the linen strips around his torso, over the gauze pads, her fingers brushed against his skin. Her touch was cool, impersonal, yet it sent an unexpected jolt through him, a sensation entirely separate from the pain. He flinched, not from discomfort, but from surprise.
"Sorry," she murmured, mistaking his reaction. "Almost done."
When she finished, the makeshift bandage was secure, the bleeding considerably lessened, though a dark stain was already beginning to bloom on the fresh linen. He leaned back against the workbench, exhausted, the adrenaline that had carried him this far finally deserting him, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and a throbbing, relentless ache.
Emilia stepped back, her own breathing a little ragged. Her blouse had a smear of his blood on the sleeve. Her hands felt sticky despite her washing. The quiet of the small room was profound, broken only by their breathing.
"Thank you," Luca said, the words rough, as if dragged from him. It wasn't something he said often.
Emilia just nodded, unable to find her voice. She looked around her workroom, at the drops of blood she hadn't yet managed to clean, at the grim evidence of violence marring her peaceful space. She looked at the man slumped against her workbench, a dangerous predator brought low, now dependent on her reluctant mercy.
The night was far from over. He was still in her shop. The danger he'd brought with him still clung to the air like the heavy scent of bruised petals. And Emilia Hart, the gentle florist who believed in beauty, life, and healing, found herself standing in the messy, terrifying intersection of all three, with a bleeding stranger who was the antithesis of everything her sanctuary represented.
The bell on the front door, if it were to jingle now, would sound like a death knell.