Chapter 5 - THE FLORIST WHO REFUSED TO BE OWNED
The next two weeks changed my life in ways I still struggle to explain.
I hired a lawyer named Rachel Bennett, a practical woman in her forties who had spent fifteen years handling business disputes and workplace harassment cases.
Rachel listened to everything.
Then she looked at Massimo across the conference table.
“Your family’s problems have exposed my client to serious danger.”
“Yes.”
“You understand her business has suffered losses.”
“Yes.”
“And you understand she is not obligated to participate in any private investigation you’re conducting.”
“Yes.”
Rachel seemed surprised.
I wasn’t.
Massimo had become increasingly careful around me.
He asked before sending anyone to my warehouse.
He stopped making assumptions about where I should go.
He listened when I told him no.
But listening was not the same as safety.
The police investigation continued.
My business insurance covered some of the damage.
Several clients canceled events after gossip sites published stories claiming I was secretly dating Massimo Romano.
One headline described me as “Chicago’s Most Unexpected Mafia Mistress.”
I wanted to throw my phone into Lake Michigan.
Another claimed I’d been caught inside his bedroom wearing nothing but a towel.
That was particularly offensive.
It had been his towel.
And I had been fully dressed.
My mother called after seeing the article.
“Sophie?”
“Mom.”
“Are you in trouble?”
The question nearly broke me.
She didn’t ask whether I was rich now.
Or famous.
Or dating a dangerous man.
She asked if I was in trouble.
“I don’t know.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “Come home for dinner.”
I drove to her little house in Oak Park.
She made baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans.
We ate at the same kitchen table where I’d done homework as a child.
Halfway through dinner, she reached across and took my hand.
“Whatever is happening, don’t let someone else’s money make your decisions.”
I thought of Massimo.
His enormous house.
His guards.
The way people stopped speaking when he entered a room.
“I’m trying not to.”
Mom squeezed my fingers.
“Then you’re doing better than most.”
Three days later, somebody damaged the braking system on one of my delivery vans while it was parked behind the warehouse.
Jasmine discovered the problem before driving it.
A mechanic confirmed that the damage was deliberate.
The police collected evidence.
Rachel advised us to stop using the van until the investigation was complete.
Massimo arrived that evening.
He looked exhausted.
“Did anyone get hurt?”
“No.”
His shoulders lowered.
“Good.”
I looked at him.
“Don’t say it.”
He paused.
“Say what?”
“That I need to move into your house.”
He didn’t answer.
I sighed.
“Of course.”
“I was going to ask whether you’d consider staying somewhere with better security.”
“Your house.”
“Or somewhere you choose.”
I looked away.
My apartment suddenly felt vulnerable.
My warehouse had been searched.
My van had been sabotaged.
And somebody had known where I worked months before I met him.
I hated that fear was making my decisions smaller.
Massimo seemed to understand.
“You can stay in a hotel. I can arrange a licensed security company, and Rachel can approve everything.”
I studied him.
“Why are you doing this?”
He looked almost offended.
“Because someone is threatening you.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “Because I believe I made it worse.”
I had no answer.
We agreed that I would temporarily stay in a guest suite at the estate while Rachel and the detective arranged other accommodations.
The arrangement had rules.
My room was mine.
Massimo would not enter without permission.
I kept my own phone, car, money, and schedule.
I continued working.
A security officer accompanied deliveries only when the police considered the risk credible.
I made it very clear that I was a guest, not a prisoner.
Massimo agreed.
The first night, I sat on the enormous guest bed listening to rain against the windows.
The room was larger than my entire apartment.
There were fresh white roses on the dresser.
I recognized the arrangement.
My own work.
I laughed quietly.
Then I cried.
Not because of Massimo.
Because I missed being ordinary.
Over the following days, I learned things about him that no newspaper would ever print.
He drank his coffee black but forgot to finish it.
He worked too late.
He hated celery.
He had an old dog named Bruno who ignored commands from everybody except Isabella.
He kept photographs of his father in his office but never mentioned him.
He never sat with his back toward a door.
And he had a habit of checking his phone whenever he heard footsteps outside.
I learned those things because sometimes we ate dinner at the same table.
Not romantic dinners.
Not candlelight and whispered promises.
Usually cold leftovers at ten thirty at night.
One evening, I found him in the kitchen eating a sandwich while reading financial reports.
“You own this entire house,” I said, “and you’re eating standing up?”
He glanced at me.
“Is that prohibited?”
“Only by common sense.”
He lowered the report.
“You’re very critical of my habits.”
“You have terrible habits.”
“Such as?”
“Skipping meals. Drinking cold coffee. Scaring your employees into silence.”
“I don’t scare everyone.”
I stared at him.
He considered that.
“Fine. Most people.”
I sat opposite him.
“Why?”
He looked puzzled.
“Why what?”
“Why do you need everyone afraid of you?”
His face closed.
“Fear creates order.”
“No. Fear creates silence. Those aren’t the same thing.”
He studied me for a long time.
Then he returned to his report.
I thought the conversation was over.
But two days later, I watched him apologize to a young employee after snapping at him over a delayed delivery.
It was awkward.
The employee looked shocked.
Massimo looked uncomfortable.
I pretended not to notice.
That was the problem with getting to know him.
The more ordinary details I saw, the harder it became to hold on to the simple version of him.
He was dangerous.
That remained true.
He had done terrible things.
I did not pretend otherwise.
But he was also capable of sitting on the kitchen floor beside an elderly dog because Bruno’s joints hurt too much for the stairs.
People were inconveniently complicated.
One rainy evening, I found Massimo sitting outside my guest room.
He wore a dark jacket.
His hair was wet.
He looked as though he’d been awake for days.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up.
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“Confirmation that the security issue has been resolved.”
I noticed a dark stain near his cuff.
My stomach tightened.
“Is that blood?”
He glanced down.
“Yes.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
I took a step back.
“Whose blood is it?”
His expression changed.
“Sophie—”
“Don’t.”
He stood slowly.
“The person connected to your van has been identified. There was an altercation when police attempted to question him.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“I wasn’t there.”
I searched his face.
“Massimo.”
He looked away.
“Some of my people were.”
The hallway felt smaller.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. He’s in the hospital under police guard.”
I exhaled.
“Did you order someone to attack him?”
“No.”
“Then why is there blood on your sleeve?”
He looked down.
“I helped one of my men after he was injured during the confrontation.”
I wanted to believe him.
But I knew enough about his world to understand that trust couldn’t simply be demanded.
“Then tell the police what you know.”
“I already have.”
I stared.
He looked almost irritated.
“You’re surprised.”
“Yes.”
“Fair.”
He stepped away from my door.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You did.”
“I know.”
I waited.
Then I asked the question I’d been trying not to ask for days.
“Why were you sitting here?”
He looked toward the dark windows.
“Because the man connected to your van knew where you worked.”
“And?”
“For several hours, we didn’t know whether he had your current location.”
I folded my arms.
“You were worried.”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
He looked back.
There was no practiced answer in his face.
“Yes.”
Something moved in my chest.
I wished it hadn’t.
May you like
Because a worried man was not necessarily a safe man.
And I was beginning to like a person whose world had already endangered mine.
