The box with the thornless rose sat on Sophia's kitchen table like an uninvited guest. She'd brought it upstairs, unable to leave it in the shop, yet she couldn't bring herself to open it again. Its presence was a constant, silent hum in her apartment, a reminder that her new locks and cameras were a flimsy defense against a man who operated on a different level entirely.
Two days had passed since its delivery. Two days of jumping at shadows, of rehearsing what she would say if he walked through the door. Two days of the terrifying, unwanted curiosity about him gnawing at the edges of her mind. She had to get out. She had to do something normal.
Which is how she found herself at the Brooklyn Wholesale Flower Market at 5 a.m. on a Thursday. It was her weekly ritual, a part of her life that predated Alex Morano and his dangerous games. The pre-dawn chill bit through her jacket as she joined the stream of other florists, landscapers, and event planners moving through the vast, hangar-like building. The air was a humid, fragrant cocktail of earth, chlorophyll, and a thousand different blooms. Here, she was just Sophia the Florist. She was anonymous. She was safe.
She moved through the aisles with practiced efficiency, her handcart trailing behind her. She ran her fingers over bundles of eucalyptus, inspected the velvety petals of dozens of rose varieties, haggled politely over the price of imported orchids. For the first time in days, she felt the knot in her shoulders begin to loosen. This was her language. This was her world.
She was so engrossed in selecting the perfect bunch of spray roses that she didn't notice the change in the atmosphere around her at first. It was a subtle thing. A shift in the background noise. The easy, professional chatter of the buyers around her faded, replaced by a tense, watchful silence. People were subtly shifting out of the way, creating a path.
A path that led right to her.
Sophia slowly straightened up, her hand tightening on the stem of a rose. She didn't need to turn around to know who was there. She could feel him. The air grew colder, charged. The scent of his sandalwood cologne cut through the earthy smells of the market, an olfactory announcement of his presence.
Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. This wasn't her shop. This was neutral territory. His being here felt like a profound violation.
She turned.
Alessandro Morano stood ten feet away, flanked by Leo. He was dressed not in a suit, but in dark, impeccably tailored trousers and a black cashmere sweater that made him look both more approachable and more lethally handsome. He looked utterly out of place amidst the crates of flowers and the tired-looking vendors, a panther in a petting zoo.
His dark eyes were fixed on her, missing nothing—the way her knuckles were white where she gripped the flower, the slight tremble in her other hand, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
He didn't smile. He simply closed the distance between them with that silent, predatory grace. The entire section of the market had gone preternaturally quiet. Everyone was pretending not to watch, but every single person was riveted.
"Sophia," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the space between them.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, the question coming out as an accusation. She couldn't muster a polite facade. The shock was too raw.
One dark eyebrow lifted slightly. "I own the building." He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And of course he did. His empire was vast and insidious, touching everything. There was no escape.
He reached out, and before she could flinch away, his fingers brushed against the spray rose she was still death-gripping. His touch was deliberate, his skin warm against hers. The same electric jolt from the shop seared up her arm. She sucked in a sharp breath.
"A good choice," he murmured, his eyes dropping to the flower before lifting back to hers. "But fragile. They bruise easily."
The double meaning hung in the air between them. You are fragile. You bruise easily. This world will damage you.
Before she could form a retort, his attention shifted. His body went still in a different way. The casual intensity focused into razor-sharp alertness. His gaze moved past her shoulder, scanning the crowd behind her. Leo, beside him, also stiffened, his hand moving infinitesimally closer to the inside of his jacket.
Alex's eyes narrowed. A cold, deadly mask settled over his features. The predator had scented other predators.
"We're leaving," he said, his voice losing all its subtlety, becoming a cold command. His hand shot out and closed around her upper arm. His grip was like iron, unbreakable but not painful. It was terrifyingly possessive.
"Let go of me," she hissed, trying to pull back. Panic flared, bright and hot. "What are you doing?"
He ignored her, his head on a swivel, constantly scanning. "Now is not the time for a scene, mia fioraia," he growled, the Italian endearment—'my little florist'—sounding like a threat. He began pulling her, her handcart forgotten, through the crowd. Leo moved ahead of them, clearing a path with his sheer bulk and a look that promised violence.
People scrambled out of their way, eyes wide. Sophia stumbled, her heart hammering. "Stop it! You're frightening people!"
"Good," he bit out, his pace not slowing. "They should be frightened."
He wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at everything, everyone. He was seeing threats she couldn't perceive. The reality of his life, the constant, pervasive danger she had only glimpsed, was now closing in around her, and he was dragging her into the heart of it.
He pulled her through a service exit and out into a loading dock alley, where the black Range Rover was already idling, the passenger door open. Leo yanked the door open wider.
"Get in," Alex commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
"No! I'm not going anywhere with you!" She planted her feet, yanking against his grip with all her strength. It was like trying to move a mountain.
His face was a cold, hard mask of impatience and something else—genuine urgency. "Those men who came to your shop? They're here. In that market. And they were not here for the tulips. Now, you can get in the car willingly, or I can put you in it. The choice is yours, but you have two seconds to decide."
The blood drained from her face. The Volkovs. Here. The image of the kicking boot, the splintering wood, flashed behind her eyes. The safe, normal world of the flower market shattered completely.
Terror, cold and absolute, overrode her defiance. With a gasp of sheer panic, she stopped resisting.
Alex didn't wait. In one fluid motion, he practically lifted her into the back seat of the Rover and climbed in after her, slamming the door shut. Leo was already in the driver's seat, and the car peeled away from the curb with a squeal of tires, accelerating rapidly down the alley.
Sophia scrambled away from Alex, pressing herself against the far door, her breath coming in ragged, terrified pants. She stared at him, her eyes wide with horror.
He was watching her, his own breathing slightly elevated, his body coiled with a violent energy that filled the luxurious interior of the car. The danger he had just extracted her from was a tangible force.
"You…" she choked out, trembling uncontrollably. "You brought this… you brought them here!"
His dark eyes glittered in the dim light. He didn't deny it. "I told you," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are mine. And where I go, my enemies follow. Your world and my world…" He gestured out the window, then back at her. "…they aren't separate anymore. They collided the moment I walked into your shop."
The car sped through the waking city, carrying her further away from everything she knew and deeper into the shadows that belonged to him.
There was no going back.