Petals Of Sin Ch 01 03 Dark Mafia

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CHAPTER ONE

"Rosie, can you finish that hydrangea arrangement for me?" my dad called from the back room, his voice muffled beneath the steady hum of running water. "I need to head out for a bit."

I glanced up from the bouquet I was piecing together, tucking a loose strand of chocolate-brown hair behind my ear. My wavy hair had a mind of its own, escaping the braid I wore like it had a vendetta against order. "Another delivery?"

"Yeah, to Mrs. Larrington's place over in Edgewater," he answered, emerging from the back with a faded towel in hand, already in mid-motion toward the front counter. My dad had a wiry frame, his forest-green apron--a size too big--engulfing him. The years had softened his hazel eyes but etched deep creases into his face, a roadmap of all the worries he never spoke aloud. His thinning hair, dusted with gray, framed a face weathered not just by time, but by the relentless weight of keeping this shop alive. Despite his hunched shoulders, he still carried a kind of quiet resilience I both admired and envied.

Setting down the blush roses I'd been trimming, I wiped my hands on my apron--a faded floral one that had once belonged to my mom. "Edgewater, huh? Seems like a long drive for just a couple of roses."

"Not just roses," he replied defensively, straightening as he spoke. "There's peonies, hydrangeas, and eucalyptus. It's for their fortieth anniversary--it's a big deal."

"Fair enough," I said, the corner of my mouth tugging upward as I picked up a neat ribbon to tie around the stems of the arrangement. "Do you want me to go instead? You've been on your feet all day."

He was already shaking his head, reaching for the bouquet box he'd prepared. "No, no. You're busy, and I could use the fresh air."

I shot him a skeptical glance. "Edgewater doesn't exactly scream fresh air, Dad."

That earned a chuckle--a soft sound, tinged with something I couldn't quite place, like he was laughing to steady himself. "Fair point," he admitted, tucking the bouquet gently into the box. "But it's only an hour, maybe less. You'll be fine here, right?"

"Of course," I replied, waving him off. It wasn't unusual for him to leave me to tend the shop during deliveries; in fact, I encouraged it. He worked too hard, carried too much. An hour away to clear his head wasn't just good for him--it was necessary.

But he lingered near the door, glancing back. "You sure? I can reschedule if you--"

"Dad," I interrupted, rolling my eyes with affection. "I've been running this place since high school. I think I can handle one hour."

A faint smile tugged at his lips, tired but full of pride. "You're a good kid, Rosie," he said softly before adjusting the box under his arm and stepping toward the door. Sunlight spilled into the shop as the bell above the frame let out its familiar chime.

"I'll be back soon," he added, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "Don't get into any trouble."

I laughed. "In a flower shop? My options are pretty limited."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the place. The late afternoon light poured through the windows, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. It was my favorite time of day--the shop calm, the air heavy with the fragrance of fresh blooms, and the promise of evening just beginning to stretch its fingers across the sky.

I turned back to the bouquet I'd been arranging, fluffing the baby's breath and tucking the blush roses deeper into the foliage. But the soft chime of the bell broke my focus. I looked up, expecting to see my dad returning for something he'd forgotten or a regular customer stopping in.

Instead, I heard the faint echo of measured footsteps--slow, deliberate. They weren't hurried, but purposeful, like each step had been carefully calculated.

"Welcome to Ivy & Bloom," I said, wiping my hands on my apron and offering a polite smile. "Let me know if I can--"

The words died in my throat as the man stepped inside.

He wasn't like anyone I'd ever seen in the shop. His presence alone shifted the air, pulling it taut with an invisible weight. He was tall, his posture rigid and commanding, exuding an unhurried confidence that filled the room. The tailored charcoal suit he wore clung to him perfectly, the burgundy tie an understated accent that somehow amplified his presence. Dark hair slicked back revealed a face sculpted with sharp angles: a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a trace of stubble that softened his otherwise imposing features.

But it was his eyes that arrested me--gray and unyielding, dissecting everything they fell on as though the shop, the flowers, and even I were laid bare before him.

"Miss Quinn?" His voice was low and steady, quiet yet potent, a sound that demanded attention without raising itself.

I blinked, forcing my brain to catch up. "That's me."

A ghost of a smile curved his lips--enough to suggest amusement, but not enough to soften the intensity of his gaze. He didn't move closer, his eyes drifting briefly over the shop's displays--the shelves of potted succulents, the vibrant arrangements perched on countertops, and even the polished but worn wooden floors. Nothing escaped his notice.

"Lovely place," he said, his tone polite but distant.

"Thank you," I managed, keeping my voice steady despite the uneasy energy that prickled in his wake. "Can I help you find something? A bouquet, maybe? We have some pre-made options, or I can make a custom arrangement if you'd prefer."

His gaze snapped back to me, sharp and focused. "I'm sure what I have in mind is closer to the latter. That's something you're good at?"

"It's sort of my specialty," I replied, forcing lightness into my tone.

"Good," he said, his expression unreadable. "Your father knows of the arrangement."

"Oh," I stammered, my gaze darting over the workspace, searching for an order I might have overlooked. "I apologize. He didn't mention it to me, and I don't see your order here, but if you wouldn't mind giving me the details again, I'll get started right away."

His head tilted ever so slightly, the barest flicker of amusement crossing his face, like he enjoyed watching me fumble.

I swallowed hard, my heart sinking at the thought of another last-minute task. The day had already dragged on, and I'd been clinging to the faint hope of closing early. Still, I forced a polite smile to my lips.

"Not that kind of arrangement."

His words were quiet, unhurried, but something in his tone made my chest tighten. There was a deliberate weight to how he said it, a subtle shift that sent a ripple of unease skittering across my skin. My smile wavered.

"Oh." I cleared my throat, trying to sound composed despite the knot forming in my stomach. "Then... what kind of arrangement are we talking about?"

He finally moved, stepping closer with a languid, almost predatory grace. His hand rested on the counter between us, his long fingers tapping once against the polished wood. The sound was sharp and deliberate, like a punctuation mark. His eyes--gray, cold, and unyielding--held mine captive.

"Your father's arrangement," he said, his voice smooth as velvet, but laced with an edge. "Remedial in nature."

Confusion flared, momentarily overtaking the growing unease. "My father?"

"Yes." His eyes didn't waver. "He didn't tell you?"

I shook my head, my thoughts scrambling for footing. "No, I don't--I don't know what you're talking about. Is this about the shop's rent?"

A low breath escaped him, almost a laugh but devoid of warmth. "A debt."

The word landed between us like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward. My brow furrowed as I tried to grasp what he meant.

"I'm sorry, but there must be some mistake," I said quickly. "We don't owe anyone anything. The shop is modest, sure, but we're managing."

His expression remained impassive, though his eyes seemed to sharpen, pinning me in place. "You sound certain of that."

"I am," I insisted, though my voice faltered slightly. A whisper of doubt curled in the back of my mind, uninvited but insistent. My father would have told me if something was wrong... wouldn't he?

He leaned back, his posture casual, though there was nothing casual about the way his eyes dissected me. It wasn't just the shop he was assessing anymore--it was me. My stance, my tone, the way my fingers gripped the edge of the counter.

"You've been here a long time," he said conversationally, though the weight of his words pressed heavy. "You care about this place."

Caught off guard by the observation, I hesitated. "Well, yes," I admitted. "It's my family's shop. My mom started it, and after she passed, my dad and I kept it going. It's not much, but it's ours."

His gaze flicked briefly to the hydrangeas on the counter before settling back on me. "It takes more than skill to run a place like this," he said thoughtfully. "It requires patience. Dedication."

I nodded uncertainly. "That's true. It's not always easy, but it's worth it."

"Is it?" His tone softened, almost as though he were genuinely curious. "Worth sacrificing for?"

Something in the way he asked the question made my stomach twist. "I don't understand what you mean."

He reached into his suit jacket, withdrawing a neatly folded document. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he unfolded it and placed it on the counter between us.

"Let me clarify," he said.

I hesitated, staring at the paper as if touching it might confirm the ominous turn this conversation had taken. Slowly, I reached out, my hands trembling as I scanned the dense legal text. My father's signature stood out near the bottom, shaky but unmistakable. Next to it was another name, written in bold, precise letters: Cassian Moreau.

My breath caught. My gaze snapped back to him, panic rising in my chest. "What is this?"

"A resolution to your father's debt," he said, his tone maddeningly calm. "He owed a substantial sum. When he couldn't pay, I settled it for him. In return, he offered this shop as collateral."

"No." The word escaped in a whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears. "That's not possible. My dad wouldn't--he wouldn't just give this place up. He knows how much it means to me."

Mr. Moreau's expression didn't waver. If anything, it hardened, his words slicing through my denial with brutal precision. "Desperation makes people do things they'd never imagine, Miss Quinn. And your father was desperate."

I stumbled back, the counter digging into my palms as though I could ground myself against the shock. "This can't be real. He wouldn't do this."

"I don't deal in feelings or hypotheticals," he said, his voice quiet but unyielding. "This is real. It's already done."

The edges of my vision blurred as tears pricked my eyes. I refused to let them fall. "Why are you telling me this now? If the shop is already yours, why are you here?"

"Because," he said, his gaze steady and unreadable, "I wanted to see what I'd acquired. I wanted to meet you. And when I want something, I get it."

He sounded arrogant.

"Meet me?" My voice cracked, trembling with the weight of disbelief. "Why?"

His lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Because you're staying."

The words hit me like a blow. "What?"

"You'll continue running the shop," he said smoothly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Exactly as you've been doing--for now. The only change... you'll do it for me."

Anger surged, cutting through the haze of fear and disbelief. "And if I refuse?"

His smile widened fractionally, the chill in his eyes unmistakable. "Then you lose everything."

He stepped back, leaving the document on the counter like a bomb waiting to detonate. The bell chimed as he reached the door, pausing just long enough to glance back.

"Think carefully, Miss Quinn," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "Some arrangements can't be undone."

And then he was gone, leaving me alone in the stillness of the shop. The document sat before me, the weight of its words sinking deeper into my chest. My hands trembled as I clutched the counter, the world I thought I knew shattering piece by piece.

CHAPTER TWO

The faint trace of his cologne lingered--a sharp, woodsy blend with a darker undercurrent--and it gnawed at my already frayed senses. My fingers gripped the edge of the counter, trembling slightly as I stared down at the legal document before me. The words glared under the fluorescent shop lights, unyielding in their stark finality.

"A debt," he had said. His voice had been smooth, deliberate, and absolute, each syllable cutting clean through my defenses. My father had signed the shop away--just handed it over as if it were nothing. As if it weren't all we had left of Mom. As if it weren't the very thing I'd spent the last ten years keeping alive.

My legs carried me away from the counter before my mind could catch up, pacing the narrow aisle between rows of blooms and potted succulents. Each step echoed faintly against the hardwood floor, a sound too hollow to drown out the storm raging inside me. Dragging a hand through my hair, I pulled it loose from its tie, the sudden release doing little to ease the pressure building behind my temples.

"He wouldn't do this," I muttered under my breath, the words a feeble protest against the reality pressing down on me. "He couldn't do this."

But the signature on that paper told a different story.

My gaze darted toward the door, half-expecting Cassian Moreau to still be there, watching, waiting with those calculating gray eyes that seemed to see too much. The thought of him--his measured calm, his unshakable certainty--sent a chill through me. I shook my head, trying to banish the image, but his words echoed louder.

It's already done.

The shop, usually my sanctuary, felt suffocating. The golden light streaming in through the windows no longer warmed the space--it exposed it, glaring and intrusive. I couldn't think here, couldn't breathe here, not with his presence still lingering like a shadow.

With a burst of restless energy, I strode to the front of the shop and flipped the Open sign to Closed with more force than necessary. The bell above the door chimed faintly, and I yanked the shades down, the fabric rustling as it fell into place, blocking out the twilight-streaked evening. The lock clicked with a decisive twist under my hand, and I leaned back against the door, letting the cool wood steady me.

My hand drifted to my chest, pressing lightly against the frantic thrum of my heart. Each beat betrayed the panic bubbling just below the surface, threatening to pull me under. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply in an effort to settle the chaos in my head. The faint scent of lavender and eucalyptus hung in the air, but tonight it brought no comfort. Instead, it only reminded me of what was at stake--of what I stood to lose.

I opened my eyes, scanning the shop. The rows of carefully arranged flowers, the ivy cascading from the shelves, the succulents nestled in their ceramic pots--it was all so familiar, so full of life and memory. Every inch of this place held a piece of me, of us: Mom teaching me how to tend orchids, Dad staying up late to balance the books, customers leaving with shy smiles and bouquets meant to say the words they couldn't.

This wasn't just a business. It was home. It was legacy.

And now, it belonged to him.

The document still sat on the counter, glaring up at me. My father's signature stared back, stark and resolute. Each stroke of the pen was hesitant, but final. He had done this. He had signed it all away.

The jingle of the bell snapped me back, and I spun toward the door. My father stepped inside, holding the now-empty bouquet box, his expression faintly distracted.

"Delivery's done," he said, setting the box on the worktable. He glanced at the pulled shades and the flipped sign. "Why'd you close early? Everything okay?"

I couldn't move. The paper felt like it was burning a hole in my palm, and my heart thundered in my chest, loud enough to drown out his words. When I finally opened my mouth to speak, nothing came out. The betrayal and disbelief churned inside me, threatening to overflow.

"Rosie?" His voice softened, cautious now. His eyes--warm and familiar--held a flicker of something else. Guilt. "What's going on?"

I couldn't bear to look at him. Instead, I dropped the paper onto the counter between us, its descent slow, deliberate. It landed like a stone on the surface, the weight of it palpable in the silence. "What's going on?" I echoed, my voice trembling. "Why don't you tell me? Does the name Cassian Moreau mean anything to you?"

The color drained from his face. His hands, reaching instinctively for the paper, froze mid-air. His mouth opened, but no words came out. The silence was answer enough.

"He was here," I pressed, my voice rising despite my effort to keep it steady. "He told me you gave him the shop. That you traded it away for some debt. Is that true?"

His shoulders sagged, and his hands gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. "I didn't want you to find out like this," he said finally, his voice low, regret thick in every word.

The room seemed to tilt, and I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself. "You didn't want me to find out at all?" My voice cracked, sharp with anger and disbelief. "You didn't think I'd notice that our entire life now belongs to someone else?"

"It's not that simple," he said, his voice trembling, each word fraying at the edges. "I... I thought I could handle it before it came to this."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips, sharp and strained, the sound unfamiliar even to me. "Handle what?" I snapped, my voice rising as my fingers dug into the counter, knuckles white with tension. I gestured toward the photo on the wall, the one of my mother smiling so warmly it felt like a distant echo of a life we'd lost. "What could possibly make you give up this shop? Mom's shop? How could you--how could you betray her like this? How could you do this to me?"

He flinched as though my words had struck him, his head bowing under their weight. My father, the man who had always been my anchor, my protector, looked impossibly small in that moment.

"Don't think for a second that this doesn't kill me," he said, his voice ragged and raw, each syllable heavy with regret. "I did it to protect us. To protect you."

"From what?" I demanded, my pulse pounding so hard it felt like it might shatter my ribs. "What could be so terrible that you'd risk everything we've worked for? Everything Mom worked for?"

His eyes darted to the windows, scanning the shop as though shadows might be listening. When he spoke, his voice was lower, tinged with a fear I wasn't used to hearing from him. "I owed money, Rosie. A lot of money."

The words hit me like a blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. My stomach churned, twisting with disbelief. "How? How is that even possible?" My voice dropped to a whisper as the realization began to take hold. "Gambling?" The word sliced through the air, jagged and raw. He didn't answer, but his silence was answer enough.

"You gambled away our shop?" I choked, the accusation leaving my throat tight and burning.

He winced, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his guilt, but still, he said nothing. The silence hung between us, heavy and damning.

"You gambled away our lives," I hissed, my voice trembling as the full weight of his actions pressed down on me. My chest tightened painfully, my vision blurring at the edges. "How much did you lose, Dad? How deep did you dig this hole?"