Chapter 2 - Sophia's Bloom
The ride to Wells Street was silent, save for the rhythmic, heavy slap of the windshield wipers trying to clear the sheets of water throwing themselves against the armored glass of the Cadillac. I sat in the back seat, Emma tucked against my side beneath my heavy cashmere overcoat. She had stopped shivering, but she had not let go of my sleeve. Her small fingers remained locked in the fabric, a constant, physical accusation.
Dante sat in the front passenger seat, his head turned toward the dark street, his reflection in the glass revealing a tight, uncharacteristic clenching of his jaw. Luca drove with a smooth, terrifying precision, navigating the flooded streets as if the storm did not exist.
When the SUV pulled up to the curb outside Sophia's Bloom, the scene was already cordoned off by the dark, heavy silence of a neighborhood that knew when to close its blinds.
The front bay window of the florist shop was shattered. Large, jagged teeth of glass remained stuck in the wooden frame, while the sidewalk was littered with broken flower pots, crushed yellow lilies, and bright red carnations that looked like drops of fresh blood against the wet concrete. The white hand-painted sign, Sophia's Bloom, hung from a single chain, creaking in the wind like a noose.
I opened the door and stepped out into the pouring rain, not waiting for Luca to hold an umbrella. The cold water hit my face, but I barely felt it. I carried Emma in my arms, her small head buried in my shoulder.
"Luca, door," I commanded.
Luca didn't bother with a key. He drove his boot into the lock of the wooden door, the frame splintering with a sharp, dry crack that was swallowed by the thunder above. We stepped inside.
The interior of the shop was a disaster. The air was thick with the sweet, cloying scent of crushed stems, wet soil, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Shelves had been ripped from the walls, expensive ceramic vases lay shattered across the floor, and a metal display rack was twisted into an ugly, metallic knot near the back counter.
Behind the counter, lying in a pool of water and dirt, was a woman.
She was motionless, her long brown hair soaked with water from a broken pipe that was dripping steadily from the ceiling. Her face was unrecognizable—swollen, bruised, and covered in deep lacerations. Her fingers were curled inward, her nails torn as if she had tried to claw her way across the floor to escape her attackers.
"Mommy!" Emma screamed, twisting in my grip.
I set her down gently, and she scrambled over the broken glass, dropping to her knees beside her mother. "Mommy, wake up! I found him! I found the man!"
I walked slowly toward the counter, my boots crunching on the glass. I knelt beside the woman, my fingers reaching for her neck. Her pulse was thin, rapid, and thready—the pulse of a body that was slowly giving up.
"She's alive," I said, looking up at Luca. "Call Dr. Rossi. Tell him to get to the private clinic on 18th. Now."
Luca nodded, already reaching for his phone.
As I began to stand, my eyes caught on something beneath the shattered remains of a terracotta pot near the woman's outstretched hand. It was a small, crumpled piece of paper, soaked with water and stained with a dark, oily thumbprint.
I reached down and picked it up.
It was an invoice, printed on cheap, yellow carbon paper. The header read Valenti Wholesalers – Fine Floral Imports. It was a standard delivery receipt for twenty boxes of rare white lilies, imported from Ecuador. But it wasn't the flowers that drew my attention.
It was the signature at the bottom.
In our organization, every transaction, no matter how small, left a paper trail. We controlled the flower market, the fruit stands, the dry cleaners—every small business in the district paid a small, manageable fee for protection and distribution. The invoices were supposed to be signed by local collectors, men who report directly to our regional captains.
But the signature on this invoice was not a collector's.
It was written in a sharp, elegant script, the ink slightly smeared by the rain but still perfectly legible. It was signed with the initials D.R.
And beneath the initials was a private ledger tracking number: 994-Alpha.
I stood up slowly, the crumpled piece of paper held between my fingers. I did not look at the woman on the floor. I did not look at Emma. I turned around and faced the doorway where Dante Rizzo stood, his hands tucked inside his coat pocket, his eyes fixed on the broken window.
"Dante," I said, my voice barely louder than the dripping water from the ceiling.
He turned his head toward me, his expression perfectly calm, the face of a man who had balanced my books for twelve years without a single penny going missing. "Yes, Leo?"
"Who handles the import accounts for Valenti Wholesalers?"
"That would be one of our shell companies on the south side," Dante replied smoothly, his voice containing the dry, clinical tone of an accountant. "I believe it's managed by a mid-level associate named Marco. Why do you ask?"
May you like
I walked toward him, stopping when the space between us was less than a foot. I held up the yellow piece of paper, the smeared ink of his signature inches from his eyes.
"Because this invoice is signed with your personal ledger tracking code, Dante," I said. "The code that only three people in this city have access to. And the date on this delivery is yesterday."
