The scent of his cologne still lingered in the shop.
Sophia tried to focus on arranging a bouquet of lilies, but her hands wouldn't stop trembling. It had been only a few hours since he'd left, but the memory was seared into her senses. The way Alessandro Morano had filled the space, his piercing gaze, the chilling request for a funeral arrangement. The way he'd said her name—a statement, not a question.
"I need a bouquet. For a funeral."
The words echoed in the quiet shop, now feeling like a grim premonition. Her own funeral, perhaps. She shoved the thought away, her fingers crushing a lily stem. The cool, smooth texture was usually calming. Today, it felt like a bone.
She jumped as the doorbell chimed, her heart leaping into her throat. But it was only Mrs. Gable, cheerful and oblivious, buying her weekly daisies. Sophia forced a smile, her hands shaking as she made change. Every sound from the street—a car door slamming, a raised voice—made her flinch. She was jumping at shadows, her nerves stretched wire-tight.
As evening descended, painting the shop in long, ominous shadows, the fear curdled into a solid, cold knot in her stomach. She locked the front door early, the click of the bolt doing little to soothe her. The silence of the empty shop was no longer peaceful; it was waiting.
She was in the back room, sorting through invoices she couldn't focus on, when she heard it.
A scrape. A soft, shuffling sound at the back door.
Her blood ran cold. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. It was probably just the building settling. Or a raccoon in the alley.
There it was again. A low, muffled voice. Then another.
Her blood ran cold. It wasn't the building. It wasn't an animal.
Someone was outside the door.
Heart hammering, she crept silently to the doorway between the back room and the main shop. The lights were off, plunging the space into deep shadow. The streetlights outside cast a weak, orange glow through the big front window.
Two large, hulking figures were silhouetted against the glass, peering inside. One of them cupped his hands around his eyes to see past the reflection. He said something in a low, guttural language she didn't understand. Russian.
A cold, primal terror, far deeper than what she'd felt with Alex, seized her. This was different. Alex was calculated, controlled danger. This felt raw, violent, and unpredictable. These men weren't here to send a message. They were here to break something.
One of them rattled the door handle. The lock held firm. The man cursed in English. "Is locked."
"So kick it," the other one grunted.
No. No, no, no. Sophia's mind screamed. She was trapped. The back door opened into a dead-end alley. There was no way out. She fumbled in her apron pocket for her phone, her fingers slipping on the screen. 9-1-1. She just had to press the call button.
THUD.
The door shuddered under a powerful kick. The glass in the window vibrated.
THUD.
Another kick. The frame splintered with a sickening crack.
Tears of pure panic blurred her vision. She pressed herself against the wall in the dark back room, her phone clutched in her shaking hand. She could hear their rough laughter, their casual conversation as they prepared to kick again.
This was it. This was the danger Alex had somehow known about. This was the world he belonged to, crashing through her door.
She was about to press the call button when a new sound cut through the night.
Not a kick. Not a voice.
The roar of a powerful engine, suddenly cut off. The slam of a car door. Then another.
The two men outside went silent.
A new voice spoke, cold, clear, and laced with an authority that made the air itself go still.
"This doesn't belong to you."
Sophia knew that voice. It was etched into her soul after today.
Alex.
She dared to peek around the doorframe. The two thugs had turned away from her door to face the street. Alex stood there, alone, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He looked utterly calm. Behind him, idling at the curb, was a black Range Rover. The passenger door was open, and a massive man—the driver, Leo—stood behind it, using it as cover. Sophia couldn't see what he was holding, but the implication was terrifyingly clear.
"This is a public street, Morano," one of the thugs said, though his bravado sounded forced.
"It is," Alex agreed, his voice conversational. "But that shop? The woman inside it? That's mine." He took a step forward, and the two men instinctively took a step back. "Tell Igor his message was received. And mine is this: if he sends flies to buzz around what's mine again, I will not be swatting the flies. I will be burning down the whole shit-house. Do you understand the message, or do you need a demonstration?"
The threat hung in the air, cold and lethal. The two men were silent, weighing their options. The math was bad for them. Two against two, but one of the two was Alessandro Morano, and he was never, ever outgunned.
After a long, tense moment, the lead thug spat on the sidewalk near Alex's shoes. "We understand."
"Good. Now get the fuck out of my neighborhood."
Without another word, the two men shuffled away, melting into the shadows down the street. The tension didn't break. It shifted.
Alex didn't watch them go. He turned his head slowly, his gaze scanning the dark shop. He couldn't possibly see her, hiding in the shadows. But she felt his eyes on her anyway.
He stood there for a full minute, a silent, dark sentinel in the night. Then, he turned, got back into the Range Rover, and it pulled away, disappearing as quietly as it had arrived.
Sophia slid down the wall onto the cold floor, her entire body trembling uncontrollably. The phone fell from her numb fingers.
He had been watching. He had known. This wasn't a coincidence. His visit this morning hadn't been about flowers. It had been a declaration.
And the men outside, the violence, his cold, terrifying protection… it was the proof.
The message was received. Loud and clear.
She was his.