Gianna
The flower market always smelled like bruised mint and heartbreak.
Even this early, the air buzzed with vendors shouting prices, the rustle of bouquet wrappers, and petals soft underfoot like confetti from a war no one won. Lena pulled her hood lower, eyes sharp as she scanned the stalls. Sara wore sunglasses like armor and carried a cup of matcha she hadn't touched since we arrived.
I stayed behind them, pretending to admire a bundle of sunburnt daisies, heart thudding like a hummingbird against glass.
Maya was right – there were men here. Two of them, maybe in their early thirties. One leaned against a black sedan with tinted windows. The other paced. Clean-cut. Nice shoes. They didn't smell like they were from the mafia, but they also didn't fit here. No flowers in their hands. No phones out for selfies or stalls. Just watching.
And not us.
They were watching someone else.
"Third stall, left side. Carnations and snapdragons," Lena murmured, brushing past me like we weren't together. "He's scanning for faces, not product."
"They're not Russo's," Sara whispered, nose almost buried in a bucket of peonies. "Not unless he hired guys with moisturized hands and good posture."
"What if they're with Dominic?" I asked.
Lena gave me a look that could slice fondant. "He'd send shadows, not peacocks."
But still – I felt it. A thread pulling taut in my chest. That too-familiar electric charge that hummed just under the skin when something was about to go terribly wrong.
Then one of the suited men spoke into a radio clipped discreetly to his coat and glanced across the market. Following his gaze, I spotted another man. He was not one of the watchers.
He was at the espresso cart, talking to the barista like they were old friends. Tall, lean in a navy wool coat and brown leather gloves, hair slightly wind-tousled. He looked… handsome in a polished, harmless sort of way. With laugh lines.
Both men had eyes locked on him. They were either with him or following him.
From the way the man at the espresso cart spoke into his radio, I'd say they were with him.
That's when my eyes fell on the almond croissant in his hand.
My almond croissant.
He took a bite, then closed his eyes. For just a second. The kind of second I lived for. When the world disappeared and all that remained was sugar, and spice, and the warmth of something safe.
"Oh my god," I breathed. "That's one of mine."
Sara's head snapped to me. "You recognize the bite pattern now?"
"No," I said. "The ribbon in his hand. It's one of mine. I tied that box yesterday morning – moss green, single loop. No one does it like that. It's part of the signature."
Lena frowned. "And who exactly did you sell it to?"
"I didn't." My heart was pounding. "That was left at the bookshop. Anonymous pickup."
"Then mystery man just solved your mystery," Sara said.
I didn't want to panic. But I panicked a little. "He shouldn't know it's me. No one knows it's me. He's not from a rival family, is he?"
The man finished his croissant, licked sugar from his thumb, and turned. His eyes swept across the market – and landed right on me.
I froze.
He smiled. Not like someone recognizing a stranger. But like someone recognizing a secret.
"Well, well," he said, approaching with the easy confidence of someone who always gets the table they want. "You do exist."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The bakery," he said. "Butter&Fig. I've been chasing your drop points for weeks. Your boxes disappear like ghost stories. I started thinking you were some collective of elves. But look at that. You're real!"
My stomach dropped to my shoes.
Who was he?
"You… know Butter&Fig?"
"I'm its biggest fan," he said brightly, offering his hand. "Vincent Ortega. We met briefly at a city fundraiser last spring. I was the guy with the lipstick on his tie. You offered me a napkin. Not sure if you remember."
I didn't. But my brain was currently screaming too loud for retrieval.
"I've been low-key obsessed with your earl grey shortbread. Not in a weird way. In a… tragic, I think about it in meetings way."
I stared. "You think about… the shortbread?"
"Like a divorced man thinks about his twenties," he said with a grin.
He didn't look dangerous. He looked like someone who had conversations with old ladies at checkout lines. But there was something just behind the charm – watchful, sharp. The kind of man who wasn't used to being surprised.
He leaned in slightly. "Just between us? I have a theory. You run it."
"I – what?"
"Too many coincidences. The delivery schedule matches this neighborhood's street parking reports. You always seem to pop up where my favorite boxes disappear. Plus, you have that look."
"What look?"
"The look of someone who carries beauty like a secret. And regrets it."
My mouth fell open, the words I wanted to say frozen in my throat. I dropped my bag. Without missing a beat, Ortega bent down to pick it up, his gaze holding mine, a quiet recognition in his eyes.
He flashed a grin, the kind that felt a little too much like he knew something I didn't. "I'm not trying to blow your cover. I just needed to see if I was right."
I snatched the bag from his hands, a little too quickly, a little too sharp. "You shouldn't be looking that closely."
His fingers didn't release it right away. When I yanked it back, it was as if he hadn't expected me to pull so hard. The sudden tug made him stumble toward me, close enough that I almost lost my balance. But before I could fall, his hand was on my waist, steadying me with the kind of reflexes that didn't belong in a conversation about pastries.
"Maybe not," he said, his voice oddly soft. He looked at me intensely, as if he was trying to peel something back, "But when something makes people that happy... it's hard not to want to know the story."
I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to back away.
I reached up, my hand gripping his coat like a lifeline, using the fabric to shove him back. "You're mistaken. I'm too am an ardent fan of Butter&Fig. But I'd say GoldCoin makes a better pastry."
The smirk that curled at his lips told me he wasn't buying it. "Is that so? Then may I ask what you're doing here?"
"None of your business." My tone was sharp, my patience fraying.
I pushed harder, but his hand didn't loosen from my waist. Instead, it tightened, pulling me closer. The air around us felt heavier. He leaned in, his breath almost too warm against my ear. "If you say so."
I could feel the heat rising in my chest. I was about to bring my knee up into his gut – but –before I could make my move, a voice sliced through the tension, cold and venomous.
"Well, well," Dominic rang out, his voice low and threatening behind me, "If it isn't my wife. Sneaking around behind my back in broad daylight."