Chapter 3 - The Protector's Shadow
Khloe’s breath caught in her throat. The anger that had been bubbling inside her evaporated, replaced by a cold, numbing dread. “The... the who family?”
“The Lucchesi family,” Damiano repeated, his gray eyes steady. “They are... old-fashioned. They believe that a man’s weakness can be harvested. For thirty-three years, I didn't have one. I didn't care about anyone enough to give them leverage. No wives, no permanent lovers, no family left alive to threaten.”
He leaned across the white tablecloth, his face illuminated by the candle between them.
“Then I started buying white ranunculus every Friday,” he murmured. “And suddenly, the entire underworld realized that the Devil of New York has a habit of spending twenty minutes every week watching a curvy brunette talk to an orange cat.”
Khloe didn't know whether to be flattered or deeply terrified. “Damiano, I’m just a normal person. I pay taxes. I have an overdue library book. I can’t be a mafia target.”
“You already are,” Damiano said firmly. “Yesterday afternoon, a vehicle registered to a Lucchesi captain drove past your shop three times. They weren't looking for flowers. They were timing your routines. They know when you open. They know when you leave Mr. Pickles out. They know you walk home alone through the alley.”
A shudder ran down Khloe’s spine. The colorful, chaotic sanctuary of her flower shop suddenly felt like a glass cage.
“So what happens now?” she asked, her voice small. “Do I call the police?”
Damiano let out a short, humorless laugh. “The police in this city take their pensions from my payroll or Lucchesi’s vaults. They won’t keep you safe, Khloe. I will.”
He stood up, extending a hand toward her. It was an invitation, but given the circumstances, it felt like an ultimatum.
“From this moment on, your shop is under twenty-four-hour surveillance. You will not walk alone. You will not go on blind dates with men who buy grocery-store weeds. And until I eliminate the Lucchesi threat, you will stay where I can see you.”
Khloe looked at his hand. His palm was broad, lined with faint scars that hinted at a life she could barely comprehend. She was a woman who valued her independence above all else. She had built Parker Blooms from nothing after her father passed away. The thought of being guarded, of being wrapped in the dark, dangerous mantle of the Moretti name, terrified her.
But the thought of what the Lucchesi family might do to her—or to her shop—terrified her more.
Slowly, deliberately, she placed her hand in his. His grip was warm, solid, and incredibly fierce.
“On one condition,” Khloe said, squaring her shoulders, her inner resilience flaring up through her fear.
Damiano raised an eyebrow. “A condition?”
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“Mr. Pickles comes with me,” she said flatly. “I’m not leaving him behind to face a mafia family alone.”
Damiano stared at her for three seconds before his chest shook with a quiet, genuine laugh. “Very well. The cat stays with us.”
