Trapped by the Mafia

4. Florist's Revenge

But yellow is still yellow, even for Lamborghini's sales department

***

It's 1 hour 43 minutes to go until the funeral of the mob boss I came to hate more than any other mob boss.

The countdown weighs on me like it's a bomb waiting to go off. Blood rushes into my cheeks, then drains off, but I adjust the two extra boxes I added to the cart, because I'm not letting Scali win. If I do, I'm a confirmed nobody, and I want to be somebody.

After another deep, calming breath, I exit the warehouse and wave at the devil in Brioni suit. Scali didn't move an inch while I was inside, but now he shades his eyes and waves back.

I hoof it over and dance around him to load a few hundred bucks worth of flowers into a car worth more than a hundred thousands bucks. It's bat-shit crazy, that's what it is. And let me tell you, the price tag on Lams isn't due to limitless cargo space!

Despite this, I manage to fit the boxes without damaging the hand-stitched leather of the seats. As an added bonus, a corner of one box will jam into Scali's back for the next forty minutes.

When I gallop back after parking the cart and locking the doors of the warehouse section—with 1 hour 33 minutes until the mob funeral—Scali holds the car door open for me. Again. While watching me skid on the gravel over the rim of his dark shades.

The guy's as out of place in my neighborhood as the piled up boxes are in his fancy ride. By all rights, he should ask me what kind of spell he was under, and how he ended up here. But nope, he's holding the door for me, like he's a concierge.

"Is the door-holding the only thing you've learned about manners, Scali?"

"I'll let you be the judge of it."

Wait, did he just imply we would meet again? Sweat dots my neck. To cover up how flustered I am, I stick my hands into my pockets, and touch a single blood-red carnation I stashed there for the ride back.

My fingers close around it, and before I could think it through, I toss it to Scali. "For your troubles."

He catches the blossom out of the air with an instinctive, swift motion, then frowns. Look who isn't used to being tipped in flowers!

It's not even a full frown, just a tiny crease between his brows, but I blush brighter than the bud. A spark, discernible only to me, passes between us.

My brain, O my brain! I can see it riding into the sunset, deserting me. How I would miss it!

"Bryn, for the sake of all that is holy! I've never met a woman this reluctant to get into the car."

"Gee, maybe, just maybe...and hear me out!...maybe it's because you don't drive other women at two hundred miles-per-hour speed."

"Nobody complained yet." He shoves the blood-red carnation on the dashboard. Who needs a clear view of the road?

I'll have to share a tiny space with this man for another thirty-seven to thirty-nine minutes. The only thing that fortifies me is the thought about my two extra boxes in the back. I giggle and drop my ass into the low leather seat.

This time, I shut my eyes for the duration of the ride and don't peek. Otherwise, my gaze would linger on the flower blazing red on the dashboard. But once you cut off one sensory input, the others sharpen to compensate. The carnation's spicy fragrance wafts over, mixing with Scali's scents of musk and cologne. I try to imagine anything more titillating than that and fail.

The traffic is heavier going out of the city, so we arrive at St. Luke's with only 51 minutes to spare. By then I'm roasted to perfection in my private circle of hell, from lust on one side and righteous outrage on another.