Chapter 1 - The Cryptic Invoice
""Josie,"" Piper repeated, her pulse thumping against her ribs. ""How many guests are sitting at this table tonight?""
Josie was meticulously trimming the thorny stems of deep burgundy dahlias, humming an off-key tune under her breath. She didn't look up right away. ""Twelve, babe. Dante Moretti, his closest lieutenants, and some high-roller shipping executives from Chicago who probably drink scotch that costs more than my annual rent. Why?""
Piper stared down at the crisp white sheet of paper resting against her clipboard. The vendor invoice from Everly Events was supposed to mirror her exact requisition slip. But the numbers staring back at her were bizarrely irregular. Flowers weren't ordered like this. Commercial wholesalers sold stems by the bunch—tens, twenties, dozens.
Yet here, typed in stark black ink, was a broken pattern: Thirty-one stems of statice. Twenty-three Queen Anne’s lace. Seven hypericum berries. Nineteen ruscus.
""Look at this,"" Piper said, stepping across the parquet floor of the private dining room. The room was breathtaking—paneled in dark mahogany, illuminated by vintage crystal sconces that cast long, dramatic shadows against heavy velvet draperies.
Josie wiped her hands on her canvas apron and glanced over Piper’s shoulder. She blew a strand of dark hair from her eyes. ""So what? Camille probably made a clerical error. You know she drinks gin out of coffee mugs past three o'clock.""
""Camille is a tyrant who double-checks every decimal point down to the penny,"" Piper countered, tracing the numbers with her fingertip. ""31. 23. 7. 19. They aren't standard bunch counts. And look at the first letters of each filler plant. S. Q. H. R.""
Before Josie could laugh it off, the heavy oak doors at the end of the dining salon clicked open.
The room’s temperature seemed to drop instantly. Dante Moretti walked in.
He had discarded his heavy winter overcoat, wearing a tailored charcoal suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and commanding frame. There was an ease to the way he moved—the predatory, silent grace of a panther patrolling its territory. Flanking him was Luca, a scarred man whose suit couldn't hide the heavy shoulder holster under his arm.
Dante’s gray-black eyes swept over the room before locking squarely onto Piper. A faint, almost imperceptible spark lit in his gaze.
""Miss Monroe,"" Dante murmured, his voice rumbling like distant thunder in the cavernous space. ""I see you brought the funeral flowers.""
Piper swallowed her immediate surge of nerves and forced her chin upward. ""I brought life, Mr. Moretti. Burgundy dahlias for passion, eucalyptus for endurance, and ivory garden roses because someone around here desperately needs a reminder that grace exists.""
Luca stiffened, his hand twitching toward his lapel, but Dante raised a single, dismissive finger. The bodyguard immediately retreated two steps, eyes glued to Piper like she was a ticking bomb.
Dante stepped closer until he was standing just across the banquet table from her. The scent of winter cedar and expensive tobacco rolled over her. ""You have a sharp tongue for someone who works with petals.""
""Thorns protect the flower,"" Piper replied without missing a beat. ""Without them, people just pluck you and toss you into a vase until you wither.""
Dante’s lips curved into that rare, enigmatic half-smile. ""Is that what you think I do? Pluck things and let them wither?""
""I don't presume to know your hobbies, sir,"" she said, quickly folding the invoice and slipping it into her apron pocket.
Dante’s sharp eyes tracked the movement. ""What is that?""
""Just the vendor list. Making sure everything is accounted for.""
""Let me see it."" It wasn't a request. The tone was soft, yet it carried the weight of absolute authority.
Piper hesitated. If she handed it over and it was just a stupid accounting typo, she’d look like an incompetent amateur who couldn't read a delivery slip. But if her gut was right—if someone had altered the invoice inside Camille’s office before sending them here—she was standing in the crosshairs of something dangerous.
""It’s private florist business,"" Piper said calmly. ""Unless you want to calculate the cost-per-stem of baby's breath.""
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Dante stared at her, unblinking. The air stretched tight enough to snap. For five long seconds, nobody breathed. Then, slowly, Dante chuckled.
""Finish setting the table, Piper,"" Dante said quietly, turning on his heel. ""And make sure the back exits remain clear. It seems tonight is going to require an abundance of your endurance.""
