Chapter 1 - The Sweet Pea Connection
"Pale purple," Dominic said, his dark eyes never leaving her face. "Specifically, Lathyrus odoratus. A heritage strain that hasn't been grown commercially in the city for over fifteen years."
Nora didn't flinch, though her hand paused on a stem of Eucalyptus. "That's a very specific flower for a man who looks like he buys his suits by the battalion."
"You leave them at St. Jude’s Memorial Cemetery," Dominic continued, taking a slow step toward the wooden counter. "Every month on the twelfth. Seventh row, fifth plot from the western gate."
Nora’s brown eyes narrowed slightly. The humorous edge she’d worn just moments ago settled into a cool, guarded stillness. She set her floral shears down on the counter with a soft, deliberate clack.
"Are you stalking me, mister...?"
"Dominic," he said simply. "Dominic Vale."
He waited for the drop in her shoulders, the sudden pale flash across her cheeks, or the nervous glance toward the front door that usually followed his name. Chicago’s criminal court documents called him an unindicted enterprise director; the street called him the King of the North Side.
Nora just tilted her head, her gaze drifting over his tailored Italian wool jacket, his polished black shoes, and his immaculately trimmed dark hair.
"Well, Mr. Vale, unless you're here to place a bulk order for an event, you're currently blocking the light for my ranunculus."
Dominic blinked. "Did you hear my name?"
"I did," she said, leaning her hands on the wooden counter. "I also heard you confess to tracking my morning route, which is creepy, illegal, and frankly annoying. I don't care if you're the mayor or the head of the mob. This is my shop, and if you aren't buying something, the exit is behind you."
For the first time in ten years, a genuine, quiet laugh escaped Dominic’s throat. Adrian, who was watching through the glass door from the street, nearly dropped his radio in shock.
"My mother," Dominic said, his tone softening as he leaned against the opposite side of her counter. "Evelyn Vale. She’s buried under that stone. Sweet peas were her favorite. Nobody knew that except her family."
Nora’s expression shifted, the defensive wall cracking just enough to reveal a profound, quiet warmth. "Evelyn?" she asked softly.
"You knew her?"
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"I didn't know her," Nora corrected gently. "I knew her garden. Ten years ago, before she passed, she used to visit the old greenhouse on 4th Street where I worked as an apprentice. She gave me a handful of heirloom seeds from her mother's farm. She told me, 'If I ever stop coming around, make sure these keep blooming.' I’ve grown them in my personal greenhouse ever since."
Dominic went completely still. The pale purple flowers weren't a threat, a bribe, or a blackmail attempt. They were a decade-old promise kept by a woman who asked for nothing in return.
