Page 5 of Chicago Sin

Hannah

Hannah Munn, Florist to the mob.

That’s me.

Say what you will about the mafia, but there are a few perks to having your business in their building. One is the regular customers—which I desperately need.

My shop, Garden of Eden, is a place that allows the sins of the mafia to grow.

And if I don’t sell five more bouquets by the time I close tonight, I won’t be able to make my payment to the don.

And the simmering anxiety that brings would be the downside to being owned by the mafia.

“I need two bouquets. A big one for my wife, and?—”

“And a smaller one for the girlfriend,” I finish for Lorenzo, the cheating bastard. It’s the same every week. “Some beautiful lavender roses came in yesterday. I made you a stunning bouquet for the wife.” I walk to the cooler and pull out the arrangement—a dozen fat lavender roses with pink and purple freesia and greens.

Because I believe flowers mean something, I put a lot of effort into Lorenzo’s wife’s bouquets. Like, if I get the arrangement right, if I really wow her, it will make up for her husband’s infidelity. Although maybe she’s off with her own side piece—what do I know? She could have some hot pool boy or sexy yoga teacher licking her from toes to clit right now. I shouldn’t care about someone I know nothing about, and yet I do. I take on other’s emotions to a crippling degree sometimes. Always a people pleaser.

“And this one is for the girl du jour.” I hand him a bouquet of brightly colored gerbera daisies.

Lorenzo cocks a half-smile like he’s not sure what du jour means. Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m being disrespectful. Hope not. I flash a bright smile to assure him I’m trying for cute.

I head back to the cash register and ring him up. Lorenzo’s been coming here since before Mary Alice hired me as an apprentice ten years ago when I was just a teenager.

Every Friday, he and a half dozen of the Pachino men go see Rocco, the barber next door, for a straight razor shave, then hit Garden of Eden to get blooms for their ladies. Another crew comes through on Thursdays. And the older, retired generation usually stops in on Saturdays. One thing about these mafia men I’ve noticed is they like their structure and routine.

“Keep the change, doll.” All these years, and he never bothered to learn my name. Or if he has, he never uses it. He pushes the six dollars and coins back across the counter. “It’s your hush money.” He winks. Same joke, every time. Every. Single. Time.

“Thank you, Lorenzo.” I drop the money back in the till. Lord knows I’ll need it to cover the checks I’ve already written that may already be bouncing me straight to bankruptcy. Or worse, getting my kneecaps busted by one of the very same customers I’m giving thanks for.

“You heard from Mary Alice?”

I smile, indulgently. I suspect Mary Alice was Lorenzo’s girl du jour a few times over the years, but my former boss would never tell. Florists are excellent secret-keepers.

“Yeah.” I spin one of the roses in his bouquet to set it at a better angle. “She texts photos of her grandbaby pretty much every day. She’s in seventh heaven out there.” Mary Alice moved to Green Bay when her daughter had a baby last year, forcing me to choose between continuing my studies to become a nurse like my mom or buying the business from her.

My parents definitely think I made the wrong choice. They don’t say that outright—they’re more the type to let me make my own mistakes, but I sense their worry every time the topic comes up.

I’m starting to wonder if I made a mistake too.

“Well, you tell her I said hello.” He tucks the two bouquets under his arm and pushes his wallet back into his pocket.

“I’ll do that. Have a great weekend.”

He starts to leave then turns back. “Everything okay around here? Anybody bothering you?”

I shoot a glance at Josie, my BFF-slash-slacker employee who’s putting a chrysanthemum arrangement in the cooler. She smirks because we just had this conversation. These guys like to play hero.

“Everything’s fine. But thanks for asking.” My smile is genuine because as much as I like to roll my eyes and snark about my customers, I’m secretly fond of them. Probably because when I was fifteen, their five-dollar tips made me feel rich. And the romantic florist in me still appreciates their chivalry.

I like the safety of being on their watch. Knowing if something did go wrong—if I got held up or I had a stalker situation—I’d know exactly who to see to exact justice.

Lorenzo tips an invisible hat and leaves, and Josie snorts. “You’re right.”

I laugh. “Did I not tell you? At least one of them will offer to slay dragons for me every week. It’s kind of endearing.”

“Of course.” Josie nearly knocks an arrangement over as she pushes vases around on the cooler shelf. “The idea of roughing up some asshole for the pretty, defenseless florist gets them hard.”