Chapter 4 - Thorns and Silk
By Monday morning, Parker Blooms looked exactly the same to the casual observer, but to Khloe, it felt like a military outpost.
Two large men in sharp suits—Marco and Leo—sat in an unmarked black SUV parked directly across the street. Another man, an older enforcer named Vincent who looked like he had lived through three separate gang wars, was currently sitting on a wooden stool near the back office, reading a newspaper and drinking black coffee.
Surprisingly, Mr. Pickles had not initiated a war with Vincent. Instead, the orange tabby had claimed Vincent’s lap as his personal throne. Vincent, despite his rugged exterior and scars, was gently scratching the cat behind the ears with a thick, tattooed finger.
“He likes you,” Khloe said, leaning over the counter as she trimmed the stems of a batch of fresh lavender. “Usually, he bites anyone who doesn't smell like fish or premium catnip.”
“Cats know who the real killers are, ma'am,” Vincent said without looking up from his paper. “They respect the discipline.”
Khloe shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. The absurdity of her life had reached an all-time high.
The bell above the door chimed, and Khloe’s posture automatically straightened. It wasn't Friday, but she knew the stride.
Damiano walked in, carrying a large leather garment bag and a box from the finest bakery in Soho. He looked remarkably relaxed for a man currently engaged in a cold war with a rival crime family. He set the bakery box on the counter and opened it, revealing two fresh, glazed blueberry muffins—exactly the kind she liked.
“You’re breaking your routine,” Khloe noted, though her heart did a little flutter at the sight of the muffins.
“The routine changed the moment you accepted my protection,” Damiano said, leaning against the counter. He looked down at the lavender she was working on. “You look tired.”
“I didn't sleep well,” she admitted, wiping her hands on her apron. “Every time the wind blew against my apartment window last night, I thought it was a hitman.”
Damiano’s expression softened, a look of profound guilt crossing his features so quickly she almost missed it. “You shouldn't have to live like this. This is my burden, not yours.”
“Hey,” Khloe said softly, reaching out to touch his forearm. The fabric of his suit was incredibly soft, but the muscle beneath it was hard as iron. “I’m not blaming you. You didn't ask for these people to target me. You were just... buying flowers.”
Damiano looked down at her hand on his arm. He didn't move away. “I was doing more than that, Khloe. I was looking for an excuse to breathe clean air once a week. Your shop... it doesn't smell like blood or gunpowder. It smells like life.”
The vulnerability in his voice was intoxicating. Khloe felt herself leaning in, drawn by the gravity of a man who held the power of life and death in his hands but looked at her as if she were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
“Damiano—”
“Boss,” Vincent’s voice broke the silence from the back corner, his tone sharp and alert. He was looking out the front window.
May you like
Gideon’s hand instinctively went to the inside of his jacket. Outside, a dark gray sedan had pulled up behind the SUV where Marco and Leo were stationed. The windows of the sedan were tinted pitch-black.
“Don't move,” Damiano ordered Khloe, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register. He turned toward the door, his posture instantly transforming into that of a predator ready to strike.
