Morning came with a sense of dread I hadn't quite felt since the night I fled Milan.
I'd barely slept, every creak in the old building sending my heart racing. The black rose sat in a vase on my kitchen table, a reminder that my carefully constructed life hung by a thread. I should have thrown it away, but something made me keep it. Perhaps the same self-destructive instinct that made prey animals freeze before predators.
The shop opened at nine. I arrived at eight, checking every shadow, every unfamiliar car on the street.
Nothing seemed out of place, yet everything felt wrong.
"You look like shit." Elena announced, appearing beside me as I unlocked the door. She thrust a paper cup into my hands. "Espresso. Extra shot."
"Thanks," I mumbled, inhaling the bitter aroma. "Didn't sleep well."
"Nightmares again?" Her voice softened. Elena knew I had bad dreams,she didn't know they were memories.
I nodded, not trusting myself to elaborate.
"Want me to stay with you again today? Mamma can manage without me."
"No," I said too quickly. If someone was watching, I didn't want Elena anywhere near the fallout. "I'm fine, really. Just tired."
She didn't look convinced, but the bakery bell rang, summoning her. "Come for dinner tonight," she insisted before leaving. "Mamma's making lasagna."
I promised I would, knowing it was likely a lie.
Inside the shop, everything appeared normal. No more roses, no cryptic messages. I began my opening routine, hands steady despite the anxiety churning beneath my skin. Survival meant composure. It meant playing normal when your world was falling apart.
My father had taught me that, at least.
The morning passed slowly. Every customer, every bell chime made me flinch. By noon, I'd convinced myself I was overreacting. The rose could have been from Dr. Moretti, awkward but harmless. The phrase could be coincidence.
Then he walked in.
The bell announced him with its cheerful jingle, such a mundane sound for the moment my world collapsed.
He was taller than I'd expected.
Broader.
In the photos I'd seen years ago, Leonardo Russo had been lean, almost gaunt. The man who filled my doorway now was solid muscle beneath a suit worth more than my entire shop. His black hair was precisely cut, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood. But it was his eyes that stole my breath, ice blue and utterly devoid of mercy.
Those eyes locked onto mine, and the world stopped.
"Hannah Rossi." he said, my false name like poison in his mouth. His voice was deeper than I'd imagined, tinged with the barest hint of a Neapolitan accent. "Or should I say... little Miss April De Luca?"
The cup I was holding shattered against the floor.
Muscle memory took over, I lunged for the back door, but he moved with impossible speed for a man his size. His hand locked around my wrist, yanking me against him with brutal efficiency.
"Three years," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "Three years I've been hunting my little runaway bride."
I kicked backward, aiming for his shin, his groin, anything to break his hold. He absorbed the blows like they were nothing, spinning me around to face him.
"Still some fire left," he observed, something like approval flickering across his features. "Good. I was worried you'd gone completely soft, playing shopkeeper all this time."
"Let go of me." I hissed, twisting against his grip. "I'm not April anymore."
His laugh was cold, devoid of humor. "You can change your name, your hair, even the way you speak." His free hand caught my chin, forcing my face up. "But those eyes? Pure De Luca. Your father had the same look when he begged for his life."
My father. Begging. The words didn't fit together.
"..you... you're lying," I whispered. Marco De Luca would die before he begged anyone for anything.
"Am I?" His thumb brushed my lower lip, the gesture strangely intimate. "He called for you at the end you know. Thought you might save him."
Nausea rolled through me. Was my father truly dead? I'd assumed the black rose was from him, a warning that he'd found me. But if Leonardo was telling the truth...
"Why are you here?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady. "If he's dead, our arrangement died with him!!"
His eyes hardened. "Is that what you think? That a debt can be erased so easily?" His grip tightened. "Your father promised you to me. His death doesn't change that, it merely transfers ownership."
"I'm not fucking property," I snapped, anger flaring through my fear. "You can't own me."
"Already do, Piccola Rosa." The nickname slid from his tongue like a curse, little rose. "The papers were signed three years ago. Everything your father owned is mine now, including his precious daughter."
My mind raced.
If my father was truly dead, who was running his empire? Who controlled the De Luca territories, the businesses, the men? The power vacuum would have been immense.
Unless it had already been filled.
"You killed him," I realized, the truth dawning like ice in my veins. "You murdered my father and took his empire."
Something dangerous flashed across Leonardo's face, not denial, but a cold pride that confirmed my accusation before he spoke.
"He was weak. Careless." His fingers trailed down my throat, coming to rest above my hammering pulse. "He lost you. His most valuable asset."
I spat in his face.
The blow came before I could blink, not a punch, but an open-handed slap that rocked my head sideways. Stars burst behind my eyes, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
"That," Leonardo said calmly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his cheek, "was disappointing. I expected more restraint from Marco's daughter."
"Sorry to disappoint," I gasped, my cheek throbbing. "Next time I'll aim better."
He smiled then, a cold, predatory curve of lips that never reached his eyes. "There's that De Luca spirit. I was beginning to think Hannah had killed it entirely."
The way he said my assumed name made it clear he found the identity laughabl, a child's disguise, transparent and futile.
"How did you find me?" I asked, playing for time as my eyes darted around the shop, seeking anything I could use as a weapon.
"You think you're the first person to dye their hair and change their name?" He shook his head, almost pitying. "Amateur. You left traces everywhere, the flower shop was practically a neon sign. Your father taught his men to fear roses, did you know that? His favorite punishment involved thorns in extremely creative places."
I hadn't known. There was so much about my father I'd never known, had never wanted to know.
"And Giulia?" I asked, dreading the answer but needing to hear it. "What happened to her?"
Something shifted in Leonardo's expression, not softness, but a fractional lessening of cruelty.
"Your nanny died quickly. More mercy than she deserved for betraying her employer."
The confirmation hit harder than his slap. I'd known, logically, that Giulia would have paid for helping me. But hearing it confirmed made the last fragile hope crumble.
"She was innocent," I whispered.
"No one in your father's house was innocent," Leonardo countered. "Especially not you, April." He glanced around the shop, at the carefully arranged flowers, the hand-painted signs. "You've been playing house while people died in your name."
Before I could respond, the bell chimed again.