Chapter 5 - The Glass Fortress
The gray sedan didn't launch an attack. Instead, a single man stepped out, dropped a thick manila envelope onto the hood of Marco’s SUV, and sped off into the Manhattan traffic before anyone could draw a weapon.
Ten minutes later, the envelope was resting on the flower counter. Damiano opened it with a pocket knife, his face completely expressionless.
Khloe watched as he pulled out a series of photographs. Her stomach dropped. They were photos of her. Photos of her walking Mr. Pickles, photos of her loading flower boxes into her van, and one specific photo taken through her apartment window while she was sleeping.
But it was the note inside that made Damiano’s jaw clench so hard a muscle twitched violently.
A beautiful flower deserves a proper vase. Bring fifty million to Pier 17 by Thursday, or we will harvest her ourselves. — Lucchesi.
“They are getting desperate,” Damiano whispered, his voice like dry autumn leaves. “Their revenue from the unions has been cut off. They think they can use you to rebuild their treasury.”
“Fifty million?” Khloe squeaked, her eyes wide. “Damiano, I’m not worth fifty million dollars! My inventory is worth maybe ten grand on a good week!”
“You are worth more than everything in my vaults combined,” Damiano said, looking at her with an intensity that left her breathless. He turned to Vincent. “Pack the shop. We are closing Parker Blooms temporarily. Move her to the penthouse.”
“Wait, what?” Khloe protested. “I can’t just close! I have a wedding on Saturday! The Billingsley wedding! The bride will literally murder me if she doesn't get her white roses!”
“I will buy the Billingsley family and cancel the wedding if I have to,” Damiano snapped, his patience fraying. “Khloe, they are taking photos of you while you sleep. Do you understand what that means? If I am one second late, if my men look the wrong way for one heartbeat, you are gone.”
The reality of the situation finally broke through her stubbornness. Khloe looked around her beautiful shop, her eyes tearing up. She had worked so hard for this.
Seeing her distress, Damiano stepped close, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her against his chest. It was the first time he had truly held her, and despite the danger outside, Khloe felt an overwhelming sense of safety wash over her. He was large, warm, and smelled of expensive cologne and tobacco.
“I will give you your shop back, Khloe,” he whispered into her hair. “I promise you. But right now, you need to come into my world so I can keep you safe.”
That evening, Khloe, Mr. Pickles, and three boxes of essential personal items were moved to the top floor of the Moretti Tower—a glass penthouse that overlooked the entire sparkling grid of Manhattan. It was a fortress of steel, security cameras, and bulletproof glass.
But as Khloe walked through the massive, minimalist space, she realized something extraordinary.
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Every single vase in the penthouse—on the dining table, the kitchen island, the bedside tables—was filled with dried, perfectly preserved flowers. White ranunculus, pink peonies, purple orchids.
He hadn't given them all away. He had kept pieces of her shop, pieces of her, to fill the lonely glass fortress he called home.
