My husband stole my flower shop dream and gave it to his mistress to open. She pointed at my design sketch and bragged: “My husband drew this for me himself. He said I deserved everything.” The husband she was talking about was mine—Dante Moretti, the most dangerous Don in Chicago. Three years ago, when I told him I wanted to open a flower shop, all Dante said was, “Don’t embarrass me with your little-girl fantasies.” Turns out the flower shop wasn’t the embarrassment. I was the one who didn’t deserve it. Later, Dante publicly announced she was his real wife, and forced me—pregnant—to admit I was some deranged nanny, and to apologize to her. I did it. Then I signed the divorce papers, terminated the pregnancy, and left Chicago. Dante thought I was just angry. He was wrong. This time, I wasn’t coming back. … The bell above the flower shop door chimed. Mia hurried forward, beaming. “My husband sent someone to pick up the flowers!” I followed her gaze— It was Carlo. Dante’s most trusted man. The moment Carlo saw me, the color drained from his face. “Donna…” Mia noticed nothing. She reached under the counter and lifted out a dark green velvet box. “Carlo, perfect timing. Can you give this back to Dante for me? He pushed it on me last night, but it’s just too expensive. I can’t accept it.” Carlo reached for it. His hand was trembling. So was mine. Because I recognized that box. Inside was a diamond necklace—the one Dante had flown to Geneva last week to bid on at auction. Our fifth wedding anniversary was only days away. I’d thought it was meant for me. I’d been looking forward to it. How pathetic. “He came so late last night, though,” Mia pouted. “Said something had held him up.” Last night was my birthday. I’d waited for Dante all evening. All I got was one text: “Something’s come up at the club. Don’t wait up. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” Turns out the thing that had “held him up”—was me. On Dante Moretti’s schedule, his wife had been filed under “delays.” If I hadn’t wandered into this flower shop by chance, how much longer would I have gone on living inside this lie? I forced myself to stay calm and told myself it was time to leave. But as I turned, my eyes caught the wall inside the shop—a hand-drawn sketch, framed in warm white. A vine-covered archway. A rose-lined window. An old piano. In the bottom right corner, a ginger cat dozing in a flower basket. My feet froze. Three years ago, one winter afternoon, I’d curled up on the couch and spent hours drawing the flower shop of my dreams. Then I brought it to Dante. “Someday, if I get the chance, I want to open a shop just like this.” He’d barely glanced at it. “You’re the Donna of the Moretti family, not some girl with her head in the clouds. Stop wasting your time on this nonsense.” He’d rolled up the sketch and tossed it into a drawer in his study. Later, the sketch disappeared. Dante said someone had thrown it out as scrap paper while cleaning up the study. That evening, he had Carlo send over a bouquet as an apology. “It’s gone. It was just a piece of paper.” I tried to draw it again afterward, but I could never quite recapture the feeling of that first one. For three years, I’d believed it had really been thrown away. It hadn’t. It had been framed and hung on Mia’s wall. No wonder this place had felt so strangely familiar. Dante had followed my blueprint—stroke by stroke—and built another woman’s dream instead. “Do you like it, ma’am?” Mia’s eyes crinkled with delight. “My husband drew it for me himself. Isn’t he amazing?” “Next time, I’m going to ask him to draw my favorite—lilies. Roses are so tacky…” Her husband. Drawn by his own hand. Dante had stolen my dream, signed his own name to it, and given it to his other wife. He’d said a flower shop would make the Morettis a laughingstock. He’d wanted me quiet. Presentable. Useful. I held things together at The Velvet Room for him, managed the old guard, cleaned up every mess. But the moment I spoke a word out of turn, he’d remind me in front of everyone: “Elena, all you need to do is be a good wife.” Turns out, all along, he’d been doing just one thing: Snuffing out my light—so he could use it to shine on someone else. The reason he’d crushed me and the gift he’d given her were, quite literally, the same piece of paper. A cold went through me. As I stepped out of the shop, Carlo followed. “Donna, I—” I didn’t look at him. I was only thinking one thing. What was stolen from me—it’s time I took it back.
At the family meeting the next day, I finished my report on the previous night’s incident at the casino. What could have turned into a full-blown shootout, I’d shut down. No gunfire. No blood. It was the cleanest job I’d handled since becoming a Moretti. Dante knew that. Then, without warning, Dante shoved the ledger across the table and lit a cigar. “This is what happens when you let a woman get involved in the business.” “Just because nothing blew up doesn’t mean she did the right thing. Letting my wife clean up my mess sends a message to Chicago: that Dante Moretti can’t even hold his own turf.” He never once looked at me. In a room of more than twenty men, all I could hear was my own breathing. “A woman should learn how to be a good wife—not give orders on behalf of her man. Elena, you need to understand that.” “As for the one with the loose mouth—she’ll learn her lesson.” He was telling everyone I’d overstepped, and that someone would pay for my presumption. I knew then—this meeting had no place for me anymore. I walked out of the study and found Grace, the old housemaid, in a corner of the garden. She was crying so quietly she barely dared breathe. Last night, when the casino called the estate, Dante hadn’t been home. So she’d knocked on my door. She wasn’t yet fifty. Her husband was dead. She was raising a son in school on her own, and taking care of a sick mother. An extra ten dollars a month could break her. With a single word, Dante could destroy her life. “Grace, I’ll handle last night. You go home. Spend time with your mother.” I handed her a tissue and tried to keep my voice light. Grace looked up, eyes red-rimmed. “Donna, you were the one who fixed it last night. Why would the Don—” “Don’t.” I gave her a small smile. “Go on home.” After Grace left, I stood there for a long time. I didn’t want to go back to the estate and face Dante, so I went to my mother’s. The living room was full of flowers—lilies, their scent sharp enough to sting. Mom was sitting on the edge of the couch, clutching a tissue. Her nose was red, her eyes swollen. “Where did all these come from?” “Dante ordered them for me. Twice a week.” Her smile was thin. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? You’ve always loved flowers.” “I’m fine. Don’t stir up trouble with Dante over a few bouquets. I’m fine.” My hands slowly clenched. The last time she’d had a reaction, it was because Dante had filled the house with lilies. She’d toughed it out until she couldn’t breathe, and had to be rushed to the ER by 911. Four days in the hospital. I’d told Dante. He said he’d remember. Turns out the way he “remembered” was to have flowers delivered twice a week. I looked down. Every bouquet had the same little card attached: Mia’s Blooms. The audacity. Dante didn’t remember that my mother had nearly died from a pollen allergy. But he remembered to send business Mia’s way. I threw every one of the bouquets out. That evening, I got back to the estate, pushed open the door—and stopped dead. The whole house was full of flowers. The foyer, the dining table, beside the fireplace—everywhere, the white lilies I hated most. I looked out at the garden. The rose bushes I’d planted with my own hands had been ripped out. In the freshly turned soil, rows upon rows of white lilies stood at attention. Dante came out of his study, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “Do you like it? You said you wanted to wake up to flowers every day.” I had said that. But I’d never imagined every bouquet would come from his other wife. My fingertips started to go numb. He’d torn out the flowers I’d planted myself, and filled my home with Mia’s favorite bloom. He’d turned me into his other wife’s biggest customer—and I was supposed to thank him for the romance. “What is it? You don’t like them?” Dante crossed to me and slid an arm around my waist. He bent to kiss me. In my head, a single image flashed— The vine-covered archway. The rose window. The old piano. Mia’s voice, smiling: “My husband drew this for me himself.” My stomach heaved. I shoved Dante off and clapped a hand over my mouth as I bolted for the bathroom. I threw up until I was crying. Dante followed me in and handed me a warm towel. “Bad food?” I shook my head, bracing myself against the sink, gasping. The face in the mirror was ghost-white. He frowned. Then something seemed to occur to him, and his gaze dropped. “Elena—are you pregnant?”
I’d meant to save the news of the pregnancy for our fifth wedding anniversary. Seven years together. I’d imagined the moment more times than I could count— Sliding the ultrasound across the table, watching him freeze, then break into a smile. Now, in the wake of Dante’s “something’s come up at the club,” and the framed sketch on Mia’s wall, that “surprise” had turned into a punchline. Dante looked at the report. He was pleased. He helped me up from the bathroom floor and crouched, pressing his cheek against my stomach. “I was too harsh at the meeting.” “It won’t happen again. You just focus on the baby.” He also said he’d make it up to me publicly, in front of everyone. On the night of our anniversary, I put on the cashmere coat I’d worn the first time I met Dante, clasped on the jewelry set he’d given me at our wedding, and arrived at the private ballroom. Dante had spared no expense for our fifth anniversary dinner. But my blood was turning colder by the second. The entire room was drowning in white lilies—the long table, the fireplace, the flower wall behind the head seats—all white, the scent so thick I could barely breathe. Beside my place setting sat a dark green velvet box. The diamond necklace. The very thing Mia hadn’t dared accept had become Dante’s anniversary gift to me. A few of the wives were murmuring not far off. “Donna Moretti has such unusual taste. For a second I thought I’d wandered into someone’s wake.” “Mia’s Blooms again. Every Moretti event lately. You don’t suppose the owner is the Don’s mistress, do you?” “If I were her, I certainly wouldn’t be smiling…” But I did. I smiled. I just kept smiling—until my eyes began to burn. My fifth wedding anniversary with Dante—every flower, every gift—belonged to another woman. I didn’t wait for Dante to arrive. I stood up and walked out. I went to Mia’s Blooms. Mia was behind the counter looking over some sketches. When she saw me, she set down her pen and hurried over. “Ma’am, perfect timing! My husband said he’s opening a second location for me. Soon all of Chicago will know Mia’s Blooms!” Her face was radiant with joy. I said nothing. I walked to the wall and stared at the framed sketch. “Are you planning to steal someone else’s design for the second one too?” Mia went still. “What?” “This drawing—I spent an entire afternoon on it, three winters ago.” I turned to face her. “The cat in the bottom right corner? He was mine as a child. I lost him when I was eight. I put him in the sketch on purpose.” “You said roses were tacky. So why the rose window?” Mia’s face went white. “You know I’m his wife.” My voice was calm. “You know the money for this shop came from my husband. You know that’s my drawing on your wall. You know this shop was my dream. And still, you had the nerve to call my husband yours.” A woman in the shop hurled her bouquet to the floor. “A shop opened by the mistress? That’s disgusting.” Half a dozen phones went up at once. Mia stumbled backward, knocking over a flower stand. Glass shattered across the floor. “Please, stop filming, please…” She crouched down amid the broken flowers and shards of glass, her voice shaking. Suddenly, I found the whole thing unbearably pointless. I was turning to leave when Dante burst in. Smack. The hand with the wedding ring struck me hard across the face. I staggered back, crashing into a flower stand behind me. Broken glass drove into my palm. Blood welled up fast. A sharp pain shot through my lower abdomen. The color drained from my face. Dante didn’t look at me. He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Mia, pulling her against his chest, murmuring gently. “It’s all right. I’m here. No one’s going to touch you.” Once Mia was calm, Dante came over and crouched down in front of me. On the surface, it looked like he was inspecting the wound. What he said was: “Apologize to Mia. Then we can put this behind us.” I clutched my bleeding hand, staring at him in disbelief. “Dante—have you lost your mind?” “You’re carrying a child.” His voice was low, meant only for my ears. “Don’t blow this up.” Cold flooded through me. “And if I don’t apologize?” Dante looked at me. His tone was terrifyingly even. “Suit yourself. But tonight, Grace disappears from the estate. Her life is over.” “Elena. You know I can do it.”
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