Chapter 3 - The Secret Beneath My Father's RosesThere are some places you avoid because they remind you of everything you've lost.
For eight years, my father's greenhouse had been one of those places.
I paid the property taxes.
I arranged occasional maintenance.
I even hired someone to keep the grounds from becoming completely overgrown.
But I rarely went inside.
The last time I had stood there, my father was still alive.
And there were things about that memory I couldn't bear to change.
Now I was sitting in the back of an armored SUV, on my way to the greenhouse with the most dangerous man in Chicago.
Massimo sat beside me.
Enzo drove.
Two security vehicles followed at a distance.
I looked through the tinted window at familiar streets.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered.
Massimo turned toward me.
"What is?"
"Three vehicles. Armed security. We're going to look at flowerpots, not invade another country."
"Someone broke into your property and threatened you."
"So we call the police."
"We are involving them."
"Then why are we going there ourselves?"
"Because you believe you know where your father hid something. I want to make sure it doesn't disappear before the investigators can secure it."
I studied him.
He had changed clothes since breakfast.
Dark jeans.
A black shirt.
A charcoal jacket.
Without the suit, the tattoo climbing partway up his neck was visible.
He looked younger.
Not less dangerous.
Just less like a man who spent his life inside boardrooms.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Yes."
"Have you ever done anything normal?"
He frowned.
"Define normal."
"Bought groceries. Waited in line at the DMV. Had a terrible first date."
"I've bought groceries."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Personally?"
"Yes."
"When?"
He thought for a moment.
"I was seventeen."
I laughed despite myself.
"That doesn't count."
"I wasn't aware there was an expiration date on grocery shopping."
"Have you ever assembled furniture?"
"No."
"Burned dinner?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Once."
"What happened?"
"The kitchen needed repairs."
I stared at him.
He looked completely serious.
Then I started laughing.
It came out suddenly, unexpectedly.
After everything that had happened, the sound startled me.
Massimo watched me.
For a brief moment, the coldness in his expression disappeared.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm beginning to understand why my grandmother likes you."
I looked away before he could see me smile.
We reached the greenhouse twenty minutes later.
It stood behind a rusted iron gate on a narrow piece of land near the South Branch of the Chicago River.
The original structure had been built by my grandfather.
My father had expanded it.
As a child, I had spent entire summers running between the planting tables while he worked.
He taught me the names of flowers before I learned multiplication.
He taught me how to tell when a plant needed water by touching the soil.
And he taught me that roses could survive almost anything if their roots were protected.
I hadn't thought about that last lesson in years.
The gate was hanging crookedly.
One greenhouse window had been shattered.
The office door stood open.
My chest tightened.
"Oh, Dad."
Massimo heard me.
He said nothing.
Which, strangely, was exactly what I needed.
Enzo walked through the property first.
After confirming no one was inside, he signaled us forward.
The office was a disaster.
Drawers had been emptied.
Old invoices lay scattered across the floor.
A filing cabinet had been forced open.
Several wooden shelves had been torn away from the wall.
Someone had searched everywhere.
But they hadn't found what they wanted.
At least, I hoped they hadn't.
I moved toward the back of the greenhouse.
The old winter-growing section was still there.
My father had built it himself, using insulated benches and a small heating system to protect delicate plants during the coldest months.
Most of the flowers had been replaced over the years.
But one climbing rose remained.
A pale yellow variety called Golden Celebration.
My mother had loved it.
After she died, Dad planted it in an enormous concrete container and refused to let anyone move it.
I knelt beside the pot.
"Where the roses survive winter," I whispered.
Massimo stood behind me.
"What?"
"Something my father used to say."
I ran my fingers along the container's edge.
There was a small wooden plaque.
CAROLYN'S ROSES.
My mother's name.
My throat tightened.
Then I noticed something I'd forgotten.
The container had a removable wooden liner beneath the inner planting pot.
Dad had built it so he could replace the insulation without disturbing the roots.
I had helped him paint it when I was twelve.
I looked toward Massimo.
"I need a screwdriver."
Five minutes later, Enzo returned from his vehicle with a small tool kit.
I carefully loosened the fasteners.
The old wooden panel came away.
Behind it was a narrow compartment.
And inside the compartment sat a rectangular metal box wrapped in waterproof material.
My hands began shaking.
Massimo crouched beside me.
"Do you want me to open it?"
I shook my head.
"No. He's my father."
The wrapping was brittle.
The box was covered in dust.
Inside were three notebooks, several photographs, a sealed envelope, and a small flash drive.
On top lay a folded sheet of paper.
My name was written across it.
Sophie.
I recognized the handwriting instantly.
I hadn't seen it in years.
My father's writing had always leaned slightly to the right.
His capital S looked almost like a musical note.
I unfolded the paper.
My sweet Sophie,
If you're reading this, then something happened that I wasn't able to stop.
I hope I'm wrong. I hope I'm simply an old fool who worried too much.
But if I'm right, there are people who will tell you not to ask questions.
Ask them anyway.
The records in this box aren't just business papers. They're the reason I became afraid.
I tried to speak to Giulio Romano. I believe he wanted to help me, but I no longer know whom he can trust.
Do not give these records to anyone connected to Carlo Romano.
Find someone outside their circle.
And sweetheart, whatever happens, never believe that I chose work over coming home to you.
You were always my reason to come home.
Love, Dad.
I couldn't read the final line without crying.
For years, I'd carried a private anger that I was ashamed to admit.
My father had stayed late at the warehouse the night of the fire.
He had missed the dinner we were supposed to have together.
I had ordered pizza.
He never arrived.
Some irrational part of me had resented him for being there instead of with me.
Now I understood he had been trying to prevent something terrible.
Massimo remained beside me.
He didn't reach for the letter.
He didn't ask me to stop crying.
He simply waited.
When I finally looked at him, his expression was different.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
I shook my head.
"You didn't know."
"No."
"Your uncle did."
Massimo glanced at the letter.
"That's what we need to establish."
I understood his caution.
But I also hated it.
"My dad wrote his name."
"Yes. And we're going to take that seriously."
I swallowed.
"Don't protect him because he's family."
Massimo held my gaze.
"I won't."
Those two words mattered more than he probably realized.
We examined the notebooks on a clean table.
They contained delivery schedules, storage invoices, truck registration numbers, and handwritten observations covering several months in 2018.
At first, none of it made sense to me.
My father had apparently been supplying refrigerated floral storage and event installations to a property operated by a Romano-controlled company.
During that period, he noticed trucks arriving with paperwork identifying their cargo as decorative materials.
But the deliveries didn't match the orders.
The truck weights were wrong.
The storage fees were paid through different companies.
And certain shipments occurred on days when the building was officially closed.
Dad had written questions in the margins.
Why does CR approve deliveries directly?
Why are Vitali drivers using the old loading bay?
Giulio says stop accepting night shipments.
Carlo says continue.
Another entry had been underlined three times.
The records are being altered after the trucks leave.
Massimo photographed the pages.
Then he stopped at a receipt.
His face went cold.
"What?" I asked.
He pointed to a signature.
CARLO ROMANO.
Below it was another name.
VITTORIO VITALI.
The father of the woman Massimo was supposedly expected to marry.
I stared.
"So they were working together eight years ago."
"Yes."
"Doing what?"
"Moving shipments through a property my father thought was being used for legitimate storage."
I looked at him.
"You say that as if you're certain your father didn't know."
"I'm not certain."
The admission surprised me.
Massimo continued.
"My father built parts of his business that I would never defend. He also spent the last years of his life trying to change it."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he had enemies inside his own family."
"Your uncle."
"Possibly."
I thought about breakfast.
Carlo's smile.
The way he'd stopped moving when I mentioned Dad.
"Why would your family need my property?"
Massimo opened a photograph from the box.
It showed the old warehouse, the river, and a narrow access road.
He pointed toward the strip of land that ran behind my greenhouse.
"Because you own this."
"An old service road?"
"It's the only privately owned road connecting the development site to a planned freight entrance."
I stared at him.
"So my two acres aren't worthless."
"Not remotely."
"How much are they worth?"
He hesitated.
"That depends on the approvals."
"Massimo."
"Potentially several million dollars."
I nearly dropped the notebook.
"Several million?"
"Yes."
I sat down hard.
For six months, real estate brokers had been offering me eighty thousand dollars.
One had told me the land was nearly impossible to develop.
Another had warned that unpaid maintenance could become a financial burden.
I'd almost accepted his offer.
Massimo watched my face.
"Did someone tell you it had no value?"
I nodded.
He looked toward Enzo.
"Get the names of every firm that contacted her."
Enzo was already making a note.
I turned another page in Dad's notebook.
Near the end was a strange entry.
Lucia knows the document is wrong. Ask her why she signed.
My breath caught.
"Massimo."
He looked down.
I pointed.
His mother's name.
He read the line twice.
Then he closed his eyes.
For the first time, I saw genuine fear cross his face.
Not fear of bullets.
Not fear of enemies.
Fear of discovering that someone he loved had been lying to him.
"What document?" I whispered.
"I don't know."
"Can you ask her?"
"Yes."
"Will she tell you the truth?"
He didn't answer.
A door slammed somewhere beyond the greenhouse.
Enzo moved immediately.
"Stay here."
He disappeared into the corridor.
A moment later, we heard voices.
Then footsteps.
Enzo returned with a young woman in a brown coat.
She had curly hair, a messenger bag, and an expression of furious determination.
"Sophie?"
I stood.
"June?"
June Alvarez was my shop manager.
She was thirty-one, practical, and capable of solving almost any floral emergency.
Usually without swearing.
Today, she looked ready to swear at everyone.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded.
"Looking for you!"
"How did you know I was here?"
"Your phone wasn't answering, and someone at the shop said they'd seen you leave with security. Then I got an alert from the greenhouse alarm company."
I looked down.
My regular phone was still inside my handbag.
I'd forgotten to charge it.
June turned toward Massimo.
"Are you the reason my boss disappeared?"
Massimo studied her.
"I'm helping her investigate a break-in."
"Uh-huh."
June wasn't impressed.
"Well, while you're helping, someone broke into our shop."
My stomach dropped.
"What?"
"About an hour ago. The back office."
I grabbed her arm.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No. Malik and Teresa are fine. Whoever did it came in before we opened."
"What did they take?"
June hesitated.
"That's the strange part."
"What?"
"Nothing valuable. They pulled files out of cabinets and went through your father's storage boxes."
I looked at Massimo.
His expression hardened.
"They're searching every place his records might be."
June stared.
"What records?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Instead, I asked, "Did you call the police?"
"Of course."
"Good."
June looked relieved.
Then she turned back to Massimo.
"And just so we're clear, I don't care who you are. If something happens to Sophie because of your family—"
"June," I interrupted.
"No, Sophie. I'm serious."
Massimo raised one hand.
"You're right to be concerned."
That stopped her.
"She didn't ask for any of this," he continued. "And she shouldn't have to suffer because of it."
June studied him for a moment.
Then she looked at me.
"Well. At least he's pretty and can form a complete sentence."
"June!"
"What? I'm under stress."
Even Massimo smiled.
We secured the box and returned to my flower shop.
I insisted on riding with June in her battered Toyota.
Massimo didn't argue.
His security vehicles followed us.
The shop looked exactly as it always had from the outside.
A blue door.
A painted sign.
Buckets of seasonal flowers displayed along the front windows.
But inside, the back office was a mess.
My father's framed photograph had been knocked from the wall.
The glass was broken.
I picked it up carefully.
In the picture, Dad was laughing beside a truck loaded with sunflowers.
He had one arm around my shoulders.
I was twenty.
He had been alive for only another year after that photo.
I touched his face through the cracked glass.
Massimo stood in the doorway.
"I can pay for the repairs," he said.
"I don't want your money."
"I wasn't trying to buy anything."
"I know."
I looked around the office.
"It's just that every time something happens, people start making decisions for me."
He was quiet.
Then he said, "Tell me what you need."
I looked up.
"Not what you think I need?"
"No."
The distinction mattered.
"I need my employees to be safe. I need the business to stay open. And I need the truth about my father."
Massimo nodded.
"Then that's where we start."
We spent the afternoon organizing evidence.
June made copies of the papers.
Malik checked the delivery records.
Teresa helped verify every floral crate shipped to the mansion.
By four o'clock, we discovered something important.
The mysterious fifteenth crate had not appeared on our internal inventory.
But someone had entered it into a supplier portal using credentials assigned to a company that handled overflow transportation.
That company was called Linden Logistics.
Massimo recognized the name immediately.
"It's connected to a holding company that works with my uncle."
I stared.
"Carlo?"
"Yes."
For the first time, the separate pieces began forming a picture.
My father's death.
The greenhouse property.
The forged delivery records.
The proposed marriage.
Someone was manipulating business documents on a scale much larger than my flower shop.
At 5:26 p.m., I received a call from an unfamiliar number.
I answered cautiously.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice spoke.
"Is this Sophie Miller?"
"Yes."
"My name is Adriana Vitali."
I froze.
Massimo looked up.
I mouthed her name.
His expression changed immediately.
Adriana continued.
"I believe you've met Massimo Romano."
"That's one way of putting it."
"I need to speak with you."
"About what?"
"About the marriage our families are trying to arrange."
I glanced at Massimo.
"Shouldn't you speak to him?"
"I intend to."
"Then why call me?"
Her voice grew quieter.
"Because you and I have something in common, Miss Miller."
I waited.
"Two powerful men have made plans for our futures without asking our permission."
I looked down at my father's notebooks.
"And?"
"And I have documents proving the marriage isn't about family loyalty."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"What is it about?"
A long pause.
Then Adriana said something I would never forget.
"Your father's land."
I gripped the phone.
"How do you know about that?"
"Because I saw the transfer agreement."
"What transfer agreement?"
Adriana exhaled shakily.
"The one that says you sold the property three weeks ago."
The room seemed to tilt.
I had never sold the greenhouse.
Never signed a contract.
Never spoken to an attorney about transferring ownership.
Yet someone had apparently filed a document claiming I had surrendered the last piece of land my father had left me.
I stared at Massimo.
Then I asked Adriana the only question that mattered.
"Whose name is on the agreement?"
May you like
Her answer came immediately.
"Yours."
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