Chapter 7 - The Velvet Box
Vincent stared at the message.
Then at the ring.
“That box never left my safe.”
“Who has access?”
“Three people.”
“Names.”
“Marco. Elias. My mother.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow.
“I’m eliminating your mother.”
“So am I.”
“Marco?”
Vincent’s oldest friend.
Head of security.
The man who had pulled Maggie from the storage unit.
“Impossible.”
“People keep saying that right before something becomes possible.”
Vincent hated when she was right.
“What was the ring for?” Maggie asked.
He looked uncomfortable.
“A proposition.”
“Marriage?”
“Public engagement.”
Maggie stared.
“You were going to fake-propose?”
“To protect you.”
She stood.
“That may be the least romantic sentence ever spoken beside flowers.”
“If everyone believes you're going to become my wife, touching you becomes an act against the entire Moretti organization.”
“And paints an even larger target on me.”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful plan.”
“I hadn't finished.”
Vincent stood too.
“The engagement would be public. The protection would be real. Everything else would be your choice.”
Maggie looked at the ring.
Then him.
“What if I said yes for the wrong reason?”
“What reason?”
“Because I don't want it to be fake.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
Maggie immediately wished she could pull the words back.
Then he stepped closer.
“Neither do I.”
His hand touched her face.
“I bought that ring before the men came tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because for three months I’ve been trying to convince myself I’m only protecting you.”
“And?”
“I’m a terrible liar around you.”
She smiled through sudden tears.
“True.”
Vincent kissed her.
When they separated, Maggie picked up the ring.
“Yes.”
His eyes widened.
“To the fake engagement,” she added.
“Maggie.”
“With potentially non-fake administrative consequences.”
He laughed.
Then slipped the ring onto her finger.
The next morning, photographs appeared everywhere.
Vincent Moretti engaged to local florist Maggie Sullivan.
The city exploded with gossip.
Customers filled Sullivan’s Flowers.
Reporters waited outside.
Maggie hated nearly all of it.
But nobody threatened her.
For three days.
On the fourth, a woman entered.
Elegant.
Sixties.
Gray coat.
She requested thirty-six roses.
“Red?”
“Black.”
Maggie’s hands stopped.
“We don't stock black roses.”
“You used to.”
“No.”
The woman smiled.
“Vincent’s mother did.”
Maggie stared.
“You know Elena Moretti?”
“Better than Vincent does.”
She placed an old photograph on the counter.
Elena.
Anthony.
Luca.
And a fourth person.
Marco.
Maggie’s stomach tightened.
On the back was a date.
The night Anthony disappeared.
“Who are you?”
The woman leaned closer.
“My name is Catherine DeSantis.”
“Luca’s—”
“Mother.”
Maggie looked again at the photograph.
“What do you want?”
“To stop my son from dying for the Moretti family a second time.”
“What does that mean?”
Catherine’s expression hardened.
“Vincent thinks Luca is his enemy.”
“Yes.”
“He isn't.”
“Then who is?”
Catherine tapped Marco’s face.
Before Maggie could speak, the shop door opened.
Marco entered.
He saw Catherine.
All warmth disappeared from his face.
His hand moved inside his coat.
May you like
Catherine whispered, “Now you’ll see.”
Marco locked the door behind him.
