Chapter 4 - The Scent of Lavender and Salt
Four months passed.
Winter surrendered to a crisp, blooming spring in Haven Harbor. My life had settled into a quiet, healing rhythm that I hadn't experienced in years.
With the help of an elderly local woman named Martha, who ran the town bakery, I found a job managing a quaint coastal greenhouse and flower shop near the harbor. The heavy physical labor was kept to a minimum; mostly, I trimmed roses, arranged hydrangeas, and watered the lavender beds. My belly had rounded into a prominent, beautiful curve. At twenty-eight weeks, my baby girl kicked vigorously every evening when I sat by the window watching the fishing boats return to port.
Here, nobody knew the name Moretti. Nobody whispered behind my back about turf wars, cartel treaties, or contract hits. People called me Claire Miller. They asked about my pregnancy with genuine warmth, brought me fresh strawberry muffins, and offered knitted baby booties.
For the first time in my adult life, I could breathe without bracing for an explosion.
Yet, late at night, the nightmares still lingered. I would wake up gasping, dreaming of the cold sneer on Beatrice Moretti’s face, or the suffocating smell of garlic shrimp filling the dining room while my throat tightened in panic. And sometimes, worst of all, I dreamed of Alexander’s eyes at the elevator doors—hollow, terrified, and full of grief.
I hated that a small part of me still remembered the man he had been before Sophia arrived. The man who used to stay awake rubbing my feet when I was exhausted, the man who had stayed by my side for three days straight when I had pneumonia during our first year of marriage, refusing to sleep until my fever broke.
He chose his past over your future, I reminded myself sternly every morning as I looked in the mirror. Never look back.
One sunny Tuesday afternoon, while I was arranging a bouquet of white lilies at the front counter of the flower shop, the small brass bell above the door chimed.
""Welcome to Haven Florals,"" I said without glancing up immediately, wrapping green floral tape around the stems. ""Just give me one second and I'll be right with—""
""Claire.""
The shears slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the wooden floorboards.
My heart stopped. The air vanished from my lungs.
Standing in the doorway of the sunlit shop, silhouetted against the bright afternoon light, was Alexander.
He looked unrecognizable. The immaculate, terrifying mafia boss of Chicago was gone. In his place stood a man hollowed out by grief. His cheekbones were sharp, his jaw covered in rough, untrimmed stubble. His dark hair was overgrown and uncombed, and his dark trench coat hung loosely on his noticeably thinner frame. He looked as if he hadn't slept a single uninterrupted night in four months.
Behind him, parked on the quiet coastal street, were three sleek black SUVs with tinted windows, though no guards stepped out. He was alone.
May you like
His hazel eyes dropped immediately to my swollen belly. A sudden, violent tremor shook his entire body, and a sound choked in his throat—halfway between a sob and a prayer.
""Claire..."" he whispered, his voice cracking. ""You're alive. God, you're alive.""
