PART 2 “Whoever Marries You Will Be Lucky,” Said the MAFIA BOSS—He Never Expected She Wanted Him
PART 2
I rose too quickly and struck my shoulder against the marble arch.
The ranunculus slipped from my hand.
It landed between us, dark red petals spread across the pale floor like a secret neither of us had agreed to share.
“I’m the florist,” I said.
The man stepped around the archway.
Gabriel DeLuca was taller than he appeared in newspaper photographs. He wore a charcoal suit without a tie, and the first two buttons of his white shirt were open. Nothing about him was hurried, yet the young assistant behind him seemed to measure every breath.
Houston knew Gabriel’s name.
Some newspapers called him a developer. Others called him a businessman with unexplained connections to unions, shipping companies, private security firms, and half the nightclubs between Midtown and Galveston.
The less careful papers called him a mafia boss.
No charge had ever held.
No former employee spoke against him.
And no sensible person hid behind an archway in his penthouse.
His eyes moved from my face to the fallen flower.
“You were crouching behind the wall.”
“I dropped a stem.”
“That was several minutes ago.”
My pulse stumbled.
“You heard me?”
“I heard someone trying very hard not to be heard.”
The assistant shifted near the elevator. “Mr. DeLuca, I’ll contact building security.”
“No.”
One word stopped him.
Gabriel looked at the floral knife on the floor beside my open toolbox, then at my trembling hands.
“She is exactly where she was hired to be.”
I forced myself to bend and retrieve the ranunculus.
A thorn from the magnolia branch caught the side of my thumb. A thin line of blood appeared.
Gabriel noticed.
He reached into his pocket, removed a folded handkerchief, and held it toward me.
I did not take it.
“I have bandages.”
His hand remained extended for one second, then lowered.
“Of course.”
There was no offense in his voice.
Only recognition.
The distinction mattered more than it should have.
The assistant cleared his throat.
“Mr. DeLuca, this is Lena Hart from Ash Floral. The agency confirmed her arrival at one fifteen.”
Gabriel’s gaze returned to me.
“Lena.”
The way he said my name made it sound less like a question than something he intended to remember.
“I should have announced myself,” I said. “I heard you enter, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“So you hid.”
“I paused.”
“For almost three minutes.”
“That was a long pause.”
Something faint shifted in his expression.
Not quite a smile.
He glanced at the arrangements surrounding the dining table. Burgundy blooms rose among magnolia leaves and eucalyptus, softened by pale roses and strands of jasmine. Against the dark furniture and towering windows, the flowers looked almost wild.
“Did you choose these?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question surprised me.
“Because whoever wrote the instructions didn’t want something merely decorative.”
His assistant looked down at his tablet.
“The instructions requested an elegant arrangement suitable for—”
“I remember what they requested,” Gabriel said.
His attention remained on me.
“What did you think they wanted?”
I looked at the table.
“Proof that the room was still alive.”
The penthouse became silent.
Gabriel’s face did not change, but the assistant stopped moving.
I wondered whether I had crossed a line I had not known existed.
Then Gabriel walked toward the largest arrangement. He examined the dark magnolia branches without touching them.
“My sister is returning tonight,” he said.
The information sounded private.
I did not know why he was giving it to me.
“We haven’t shared a table in seven years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. The distance was partly my fault.”
Most powerful men I had known treated fault like a contagious disease. They avoided even standing near it.
Gabriel studied the flowers.
“Our mother always filled the house with lilies. After she died, my sister could no longer tolerate the smell.”
That explained the instructions.
No white arrangements.
No funeral flowers.
No lilies.
Something living.
“I can remove the jasmine too,” I said. “It becomes stronger as the room warms.”
“Does it remind people of funerals?”
“No. But scent and memory are unpredictable.”
He looked at me then.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “They are.”
His assistant’s phone vibrated.
“The kitchen needs final approval.”
Gabriel nodded, then addressed me.
“Finish your work. No one will disturb you.”
He began walking away.
“Mr. DeLuca.”
He stopped.
I picked up his handkerchief from where he had placed it on the marble console.
“You forgot this.”
“Keep it.”
“It will stain.”
“It’s a handkerchief, not an heirloom.”
I wrapped it around my thumb.
The fabric was soft and smelled faintly of cedar.
“Thank you.”
He inclined his head.
Then he and his assistant disappeared down the corridor.
Only after the sound of their footsteps faded did I breathe normally again.
I completed the dining table first, then moved to the entrance arrangement. Every few minutes, staff crossed the penthouse carrying covered dishes, wine, and polished silverware. No one spoke above a murmur.
By five thirty, the flowers were finished.
The largest arrangement stood at the center of the dining table, broad enough to anchor the room but low enough for conversation. Smaller clusters of ranunculus and roses softened the sideboards.
I was packing my tools when a woman in a navy dress entered with a little girl holding her hand.
The girl could not have been older than seven. She wore a silver headband and carried a stuffed rabbit by one ear.
She stared at the flowers.
“Are they real?”
“Most of them.”
Her eyes widened. “Which ones aren’t?”
“The eucalyptus has been preserved.”
She considered this carefully.
“Does that mean it died?”
The woman beside her closed her eyes.
“Clara, perhaps we should say hello first.”
“Hello,” the girl said immediately. “Did it die?”
I smiled.
“It stopped growing, but it can stay beautiful for a long time.”
“That sounds like dying.”
“It sounds like your father’s cooking,” the woman said.
A laugh came from behind them.
Gabriel entered the room.
The little girl ran to him.
He caught her carefully and lifted her despite his suit, her shoes, and the stuffed rabbit striking his shoulder.
The man who frightened politicians lowered his head while she whispered something into his ear.
His entire face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for me to see the person beneath the reputation.
He set her down.
“Lena, this is my niece, Clara. Clara, this is the woman responsible for making the room look less severe.”
“It was severe,” Clara agreed.
The woman beside her extended a hand.
“Isabella DeLuca.”
Gabriel’s sister.
I shook it.
“Welcome home.”
A flicker of surprise crossed her face.
“Thank you.”
She looked at the centerpiece, and her eyes filled before she could turn away.
No one mentioned the tears.
Gabriel simply stood beside her.
Clara pointed toward the jasmine.
“That one smells strong.”
I knelt beside her.
“Do you like it?”
She shook her head.
“It makes my chest feel funny.”
I straightened immediately.
“Does she have asthma?”
Isabella nodded. “Mild, but fragrances can bother her.”
The anonymous instructions had mentioned no allergies.
“I’ll remove it.”
“You don’t have to redo everything,” Isabella said.
“It won’t take long.”
I pulled on my gloves and began unwinding the jasmine from the arrangements. It had been threaded through nearly every centerpiece, so removing it without disturbing the structure required patience.
Gabriel watched for several minutes.
“You were leaving,” he said.
“I was.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m fixing a mistake.”
“You weren’t told about Clara’s asthma.”
“I still put it on the table.”
“That doesn’t make it your fault.”
“No. It makes it my responsibility.”
His gaze stayed on me a moment longer.
Then he removed his jacket, rolled back his sleeves, and lifted the waste bin.
“What are you doing?”
“Making the process faster.”
“You hired staff for that.”
“I hired them to prepare dinner.”
“You are holding a trash bin.”
“I’ve survived greater indignities.”
Isabella stared at her brother.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Gabriel?”
He ignored her.
For the next twenty minutes, Houston’s most feared man followed me around his dining room while I dropped loops of jasmine into the bin he carried.
Clara inspected every arrangement when we finished.
“Better,” she declared.
Gabriel looked at me.
“High praise.”
I packed the final stems into a plastic sleeve.
“My invoice will be adjusted for the flowers I removed.”
“No.”
“I used something unsuitable.”
“You responded to information you should have received earlier.”
“It was still part of the design.”
“And the design was exceptional.”
His tone made further argument feel childish.
I closed my toolbox.
“Then I’m finished.”
Isabella touched my arm lightly.
“Stay for dinner.”
The invitation startled me.
“I shouldn’t.”
“You saved my daughter from spending the evening asking why the room smelled dangerous.”
“I removed a flower.”
“You also created all of this.”
Her hand swept toward the table.
“I arrived prepared to feel as though I were attending a memorial service for a family that no longer existed.”
She looked at Gabriel.
“Instead, it feels like someone expected us to begin again.”
Neither sibling moved.
I suddenly understood that the dinner was not a celebration.
It was an attempt.
Attempts were fragile things.
“I’m dressed for unloading a van,” I said.
Isabella glanced at my dark green blouse and black trousers.
“You look more respectable than my brother.”
“Most people do,” Gabriel replied.
I should have declined.
Every instinct I had rebuilt after Marcus urged me to keep the relationship professional, accept the payment, and leave before kindness became confusing.
Then Clara took my hand.
“You can sit beside me.”
So I stayed.
Dinner was quieter than I expected.
There were no politicians, glamorous socialites, or men whispering about business. Only Gabriel, Isabella, Clara, an elderly aunt named Serafina, and Gabriel’s young assistant, Theo.
The meal began stiffly.
Isabella asked about a real estate project.
Gabriel asked about Clara’s school.
Aunt Serafina criticized the soup and announced that seven years of family estrangement had not improved anyone’s conversational abilities.
Clara laughed so hard she spilled water across the table.
I reached for a napkin at the same time Gabriel did.
Our hands nearly touched.
I pulled mine back.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
But he did not mention it.
Halfway through dinner, Isabella turned to me.
“How did you become a florist?”
“I needed work.”
“That explains employment. Not the flowers.”
I looked at the arrangement between us.
“My grandmother had a garden outside Beaumont. When I was little, she taught me the names of everything growing there. After she died, I forgot most of them.”
“And then?”
“I remembered when I needed to.”
Aunt Serafina studied me.
“Someone hurt you.”
The observation was so direct that my fork stopped.
“Zia,” Gabriel warned.
“What? Pain changes the way people arrange a table. She left space between every branch.”
Serafina pointed at the centerpiece.
“Nothing is trapped.”
Heat rose along my neck.
“She does not owe us an explanation,” Gabriel said.
The older woman shrugged and returned to her soup.
I looked at Gabriel.
“Thank you.”
He nodded once.
The conversation moved on.
Later, Clara asked me whether roses were romantic.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“What makes a flower romantic?”
“The person giving it.”
“So weeds can be romantic?”
“If the right person picks them.”
Clara considered that.
“Uncle Gabriel never gives anyone flowers.”
Isabella lifted her wine.
“Your uncle considers flowers a temporary investment.”
Gabriel looked at me.
“I may have underestimated them.”
His attention held mine one second too long.
I looked down at my plate.
After dinner, the others moved into the sitting room. I stayed behind to check the arrangements one final time.
Gabriel found me trimming a bruised leaf near the end of the table.
“You continue working after the work is finished.”
“So do you.”
“That is not considered a virtue in me.”
“It isn’t always one in me either.”
He leaned one hand against the back of a chair, leaving several feet between us.
“Is Ash Floral your first business?”
“Yes.”
“How long has it been open?”
“Fourteen months.”
“And before that?”
I felt the old instinct to soften the truth.
To make Marcus sound less cruel so people would not wonder why I stayed.
“I worked for my former husband’s event company.”
Gabriel’s eyes sharpened slightly.
“Marcus Vale.”
The shears stopped in my hand.
“You know his name.”
“I know most event companies that handle properties connected to mine.”
“That was not an event company answer.”
“No.”
He did not pretend otherwise.
“Marcus tried to secure a contract at one of my hotels two years ago,” he said. “We declined.”
“Why?”
“His accounts did not survive a basic review.”
A familiar shame moved through me, though his dishonesty was not mine.
Gabriel saw it.
“Whatever he did was not your failure.”
“You don’t know what he did.”
“I know that people who depend on deception often become skilled at making witnesses feel responsible.”
The words settled somewhere deep.
I placed the shears on the table.
“You speak from experience.”
“Yes.”
He did not explain.
That restraint made me trust him more than a confession would have.
My phone vibrated.
The message came from the driver I had hired to help unload larger events.
Van won’t start. Battery’s dead. Sorry.
I closed my eyes.
“What happened?” Gabriel asked.
“Nothing.”
“Your expression suggests an expensive version of nothing.”
“My van battery is dead.”
“I’ll have someone replace it.”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
His face became unreadable.
“I can call roadside assistance.”
“It is nearly ten.”
“They operate at night.”
“So do my mechanics.”
“I don’t accept favors from clients.”
“Then add the cost to my invoice.”
“That would mean I paid you to repair my van.”
“Correct.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes more sense than standing in a parking garage for two hours.”
I picked up my toolbox.
“I’ll handle it.”
Gabriel moved aside so I could pass.
He did not insist.
At the elevator, he pressed the button and waited beside me.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said.
“For the flowers?”
“For making it easier for my sister to come home.”
“That had very little to do with me.”
“You would be surprised how much people depend on the room around them.”
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside.
“Good night, Mr. DeLuca.”
“Gabriel.”
I looked at him.
“If we are going to argue about invoices, you should at least use my name.”
“Good night, Gabriel.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Good night, Lena.”
Roadside assistance arrived in nineteen minutes.
When the technician opened the hood, he examined the battery and frowned.
“This is almost new.”
“It’s six months old.”
“The terminal was loosened.”
“Could it happen from driving?”
“Not like this.”
He tightened the connection, tested the battery, and closed the hood.
I looked around the nearly empty garage.
A black sedan waited near the exit, its engine running.
Gabriel’s assistant, Theo, sat behind the wheel.
He had not repaired the van.
He had simply remained nearby.
The realization should have unsettled me.
Instead, it made something inside my chest loosen.
Over the next month, Ash Floral received four more orders from DeLuca properties.
A retirement dinner at a downtown hotel.
A charity lunch benefiting childhood literacy.
A small arrangement for Aunt Serafina’s birthday.
And twelve potted herbs for Clara’s school garden.
Each order came through Theo.
Each was paid promptly.
Gabriel never appeared.
I told myself I was relieved.
Then one rainy Thursday afternoon, he walked into my shop carrying a cracked ceramic pot.
The bell above the door chimed.
I looked up from the worktable and nearly cut through the ribbon in my hand.
He wore a dark overcoat beaded with rain. Without the penthouse and the silent staff around him, he looked less untouchable.
Still dangerous.
But human.
He placed the broken pot on the counter.
“Clara dropped it.”
A small rosemary plant leaned sideways from the soil.
“You came to a florist for a broken pot?”
“I was told you repair living things.”
“Who told you that?”
“My niece.”
I examined the plant.
Two main stems were bent, but the roots appeared intact.
“It may survive.”
“Clara said you would say that.”
“Clara has unreasonable confidence in me.”
“She is not alone.”
The quiet certainty in his voice made me look up.
Rain moved across the windows behind him.
For one suspended moment, neither of us spoke.
Then the shop telephone rang.
I answered too quickly.
While I discussed centerpiece colors with a bride, Gabriel wandered through the small storefront. He paused beside the shelves of handmade cards and examined the photographs of past arrangements pinned above my desk.
When I ended the call, he was looking at a wedding bouquet of pale garden roses and olive branches.
“You made this?”
“Yes.”
“It looks expensive.”
“It was.”
“Why do people spend so much on something that dies?”
“Because it was there when something began.”
His gaze moved from the photograph to me.
“Do you still believe in beginnings?”
I touched one of the rosemary leaves.
“I believe they happen whether we are ready or not.”
The door opened again.
My body recognized Marcus before my mind fully registered his face.
He entered wearing a navy raincoat and the same polished expression he had used during business meetings, marriage counseling, and every apology that blamed me by the final sentence.
His gaze found Gabriel.
For the first time since I had known him, Marcus looked genuinely afraid.
“Lena,” he said.
My fingers curled around the edge of the worktable.
“What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
His attention shifted to Gabriel.
“DeLuca.”
“Vale.”
The familiarity between them chilled me.
“You know each other,” I said.
Marcus removed his wet gloves one finger at a time.
“Everyone knows him.”
“That was not how you said his name.”
Gabriel’s voice remained calm.
“I rejected a proposal from his company.”
“Eighteen months ago,” Marcus replied. “You’ve had plenty of time to develop new interests.”
His eyes moved toward me.
The meaning was deliberate.
Gabriel did not react.
I did.
“Leave my shop.”
Marcus’s expression softened.
It was the look he used when he wanted witnesses to see him as reasonable.
“I came because your accountant contacted mine.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Someone has been asking questions about vendor registrations connected to Ash Floral.”
I looked at Gabriel.
He did not deny it.
Anger rose through the fear.
“You investigated my business?”
“The name appeared in records connected to a company under review,” he said.
“What company?”
Marcus answered first.
“Delacroix Hospitality.”
The meeting Gabriel had postponed on the day we met.
The name from the penthouse corridor.
I remembered Theo’s nervous voice.
The Delacroix meeting is confirmed for Sunday.
“What does Ash Floral have to do with them?” I asked.
Gabriel looked at Marcus.
“That is what I intend to discover.”
Marcus laughed quietly.
“You brought her into your home before telling her she was part of an investigation?”
The word part made me feel contaminated.
“I didn’t know about the records until after the dinner,” Gabriel said.
“Convenient.”
I turned toward him.
“Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“When did you find out?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And you continued sending orders.”
“To determine whether the invoices were being redirected.”
My stomach tightened.
“So the charity lunch, the hotel dinner, Clara’s school—”
“Were genuine orders.”
“Were they also tests?”
He did not answer quickly enough.
I stepped away from the counter.
Marcus had wounded me with lies delivered as kindness.
Gabriel had been careful, respectful, and quiet.
That made the omission feel worse.
“You should go,” I said.
His expression changed.
“Lena.”
“Both of you.”
Marcus took a step toward me.
“Let me help you.”
“You are the last person I would ask.”
“At least I told you why I came.”
“You told me after you walked through the door.”
My voice shook, but I held his gaze.
“Leave.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
He looked at Gabriel.
“This is what you wanted?”
Gabriel’s answer was quiet.
“No.”
Marcus left first.
The bell struck once above the closing door.
Gabriel remained beside the broken rosemary plant.
“You should leave too,” I said.
“I will.”
He took a business card from his coat and placed it on the counter.
“The invoices connected to your company began two years before Ash Floral opened.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“They use a federal tax number registered in your name.”
“I did not register a business two years ago.”
“I believe you.”
“You didn’t believe me enough to tell me.”
His face held no defense.
“No.”
The simple admission hurt.
“I thought protecting the inquiry would protect you,” he continued. “That decision took away your ability to choose what risk you were willing to accept.”
“Yes.”
“I was wrong.”
Marcus had never apologized without attaching an excuse.
Gabriel did not offer one.
It would have been easier if he had.
He glanced at the rosemary plant.
“Clara can wait.”
Then he walked out into the rain.
I did not speak to him for nine days.
During that time, my accountant confirmed that someone had registered a company called Ash Floral Services using my name and Social Security number nearly three years earlier.
The listed address belonged to a warehouse leased by Marcus’s event company.
Invoices totaling four hundred and eighty thousand dollars had passed through the account.
None of the money had reached me.
I reported the identity theft.
I hired an attorney.
I changed every password associated with my business and personal accounts.
And each night, I found myself looking at Gabriel’s card beside the cracked rosemary pot.
He had not called.
He had not sent flowers, gifts, explanations, or men in dark suits to persuade me.
He had apologized.
Then he respected the boundary I had set.
On the tenth morning, I called him.
“I need to see the invoices.”
He arrived alone.
We met in the back room of my shop, where buckets, ribbon spools, and cardboard boxes crowded the walls. Gabriel looked almost too large for the folding chair across from my desk.
He placed a file between us.
“I brought copies. The originals remain with my attorney.”
The invoices used floral terminology.
Crescent installation.
Garden framework.
Midnight rose package.
Seasonal vine maintenance.
To someone unfamiliar with event design, the services might have sounded plausible.
To me, they were nonsense.
“Marcus created these descriptions from my old proposals,” I said.
“How can you tell?”
I pointed to the phrase midnight rose.
“I used that name once for a hotel gala. He mocked it for weeks.”
Gabriel’s mouth tightened.
“Did you have access to the company accounts?”
“Only the event budgets I managed.”
“Did he ever ask you to sign vendor forms?”
“Hundreds.”
“Blank?”
“Sometimes.”
Shame burned beneath my skin.
Gabriel leaned forward.
“Lena, look at me.”
I did.
“Trusting your husband was not negligence.”
“It feels like it.”
“Because he designed it to.”
I closed the file.
“What is Delacroix’s role?”
“They approved the invoices.”
“Knowingly?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you?”
“My hotel group paid two of them before our internal auditor flagged the account.”
“How much?”
“Eighty-six thousand.”
“I don’t have eighty-six thousand dollars.”
“I am not asking you to repay it.”
“The company is in my name.”
“The signature authorizing the account does not match yours.”
“You checked.”
“Yes.”
Before I could respond, he added, “With your attorney’s written permission.”
That mattered.
He had learned.
I looked down at the invoices.
“Why would Marcus come here to warn me?”
“Because an investigation gives you a reason to examine the past.”
“And he would rather I blame you.”
“Yes.”
“Should I?”
His gaze did not leave mine.
“For not telling you sooner, yes.”
I almost smiled.
It disappeared before fully forming.
We spent two hours reviewing the documents. I identified terminology, old event dates, and several arrangements copied directly from proposals I had designed during my marriage.
When we finished, afternoon light filled the back room.
Gabriel stood.
“You should be able to reopen the shop account by Monday.”
“Thank you.”
“My attorneys only provided records. Yours did the work.”
“You made them available.”
He nodded.
At the front door, I said his name.
He turned.
“Clara’s rosemary plant survived.”
A warmth entered his eyes.
“She’ll be pleased.”
“I repotted it.”
“I’ll send Theo.”
“You could collect it yourself.”
The invitation hung between us.
Gabriel studied my face as though making certain I understood what I had offered.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Four o’clock.”
He arrived at three fifty-eight.
Clara was with him.
She hugged the rosemary plant to her chest and declared it stronger than before.
“Sometimes roots recover faster in a new place,” I told her.
Gabriel watched me over her head.
After Clara wandered toward the card display, he lowered his voice.
“Does that apply only to plants?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“I can wait.”
The answer reached somewhere the others had not.
Over the following weeks, he did.
He never arrived unannounced.
He never asked where I was going or whom I was seeing.
He brought coffee when we reviewed invoices and stopped bringing it when he learned I preferred tea. He listened when I spoke about Marcus without turning every memory into a promise that he would have behaved differently.
Once, while helping me load potted orange trees for a wedding, he caught his sleeve on a branch.
I laughed.
He looked offended.
“I have been injured.”
“Your dignity?”
“Severely.”
The words echoed what I had told myself for years—that men like him existed only in rooms where everyone else was afraid.
Yet there he was, standing in an alley behind a flower shop with soil on his expensive coat.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“What did you expect?”
“Someone colder.”
“I am cold.”
“You carried an herb pot across Houston for a seven-year-old.”
“That was a strategic agricultural mission.”
I laughed again.
His expression softened.
“Whoever marries you will be lucky,” he said.
The sentence was gentle.
Almost absentminded.
It still stopped me.
Marcus used to say I was fortunate he had married me.
As though love were charity he might withdraw when I became inconvenient.
Gabriel’s words contained no claim.
He sounded as though he believed my future belonged to someone else.
“You say that like it could never be you,” I replied.
His face became still.
The alley seemed suddenly too quiet.
A delivery truck passed at the end of the street, tires hissing over wet pavement.
“Lena.”
“I know what people say about you.”
“You know very little about what is true.”
“Then tell me.”
His gaze searched mine.
“If you ask because you need answers about the invoices, I will tell you everything I can.”
“That isn’t why I’m asking.”
The confession frightened me.
Not because I regretted it.
Because I did not.
Gabriel stepped closer, stopping well beyond the distance where I might feel trapped.
“I have wanted to kiss you since the night you argued with me about a van battery,” he said.
My breath caught.
“But wanting something does not make it wise.”
“Are you always wise?”
“No.”
“Good.”
His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth, then returned to mine.
“Tell me to leave,” he said.
I should have.
Instead, I whispered, “I don’t want you to.”
The back door of the shop opened.
Theo appeared holding a large brown envelope.
He saw us, stopped, and immediately looked toward the brick wall.
“I apologize.”
Gabriel stepped back.
“What happened?”
Theo’s usual nervousness had vanished.
“This was delivered to the penthouse by private courier. No return address.”
He handed Gabriel the envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Inside were photographs.
The first showed Marcus standing outside a downtown restaurant.
The second showed Gabriel approaching him.
The date printed in the lower corner was eighteen months earlier.
Three days before I left my marriage.
In the final photograph, Marcus handed Gabriel a folder.
I looked up.
“You said you rejected his company two years ago.”
“I did.”
“You never said you met him again.”
Gabriel’s face had gone unreadable.
“What was in the folder?”
He did not answer.
A smaller envelope slid from between the photographs and landed near my feet.
I picked it up.
Inside was a copy of an old business registration for Ash Floral Services.
My forged signature appeared at the bottom.
Beside it was a handwritten note.
Lena,
Ask Gabriel why he had this document before you ever opened your flower shop.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I looked at him.
Theo quietly closed the shop door.
Rain began tapping against the alley windows.
“Did you know who I was before the penthouse dinner?” I asked.
Gabriel’s silence gave me the answer.
“How long?”
“Eighteen months.”
The floor seemed to shift beneath me.
“You knew my name while I was still married to Marcus.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at the photograph of himself accepting the folder.
“Because the night before you left him, Marcus tried to use that company—and your forged signature—to settle a debt.”
My fingers tightened around the paper.
“With you?”
“No.”
“Then with whom?”
Gabriel’s gaze moved toward Theo.
Something unspoken passed between them.
When he looked back at me, the careful restraint in his face had become something heavier.
“The person who arranged your anonymous referral,” he said.
“I thought Theo arranged it.”
“I processed the request,” Theo replied. “I did not create it.”
A cold sensation moved along my arms.
“Who did?”
Gabriel picked up the photograph of Marcus outside the restaurant.
“My brother.”
I stared at him.
Every article I had ever read said Gabriel DeLuca was an only child.
“He died twelve years ago,” I said.
“That is what Houston believes.”
“And what do you believe?”
Gabriel’s voice lowered.
“I believe he is alive.”
My phone vibrated on the worktable.
An unknown number had sent a single photograph.
It showed the inside of my shop.
Gabriel, Theo, and I stood in the back room exactly where we were now.
The picture had been taken through the alley window less than a minute earlier.
Beneath it was a message.
Lena, Gabriel did not bring you into his world.
You were born into mine.
Ask your mother why she changed your last name.
END OF PART 2 – LIKE, SHARE AND COMMENT “THE ENTIRE STORY” IF YOU WANT TO READ THE FULL STORY
