Chapter 2 - The Invitation to the Docks
Three days after Beatrice Moretti’s visit, the autumn rain began in earnest, slicking the cobblestones of the harbor district into dark, reflective mirrors.
At 6:15 PM, Maggie was wiping down the stainless-steel prep tables, preparing to lock the glass front doors of Sullivan’s Flowers, when a sleek, dark slate-gray Maybach pulled up to the curb. It did not park in the red loading zone this time; it pulled neatly into a legal meter space twenty feet away.
The driver did not get out.
Vincent stepped from the passenger side himself, holding an enormous black umbrella over his charcoal wool overcoat. He pushed the shop door open, the brass bell ringing as he shook the water from his umbrella and set it in the brass stand near the door.
"We close at six, Mr. Moretti," Maggie said without looking up from her rag. "The roses are sleeping."
"I am not here for roses," Vincent said, walking across the shop, his heavy wingtips clicking rhythmically against the floor.
He stopped at the counter. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a heavy, cream-colored cardstock envelope sealed with deep navy wax bearing an embossed anchor. He laid it flat on the wood.
Maggie looked at the envelope. "If that is an invitation to an underground poker game, I only play five-card draw for matchsticks."
"It is the annual charity gala for the Seamen's Orphanage and Waterfront Workers Union," Vincent said. "Saturday evening. The ballroom at the Harbor Grand Hotel."
Maggie picked up the envelope, feeling the expensive weight of the vellum. "And you need flowers?"
"The hotel has a floral contractor," Vincent said, resting his hands on the counter. "They use plastic orchids and dyed carnations that look like they were harvested from a funeral home in New Jersey."
"That sounds tragic."
"It is offensive," Vincent agreed, his eyes locking onto hers. "I want forty centerpieces made of fresh white gardenias, dark blue delphiniums, and cedar greens. Sourced locally. Prepared by someone who understands that waterfront workers deserve better than synthetic foliage."
Maggie narrowed her eyes at him. "Forty centerpieces is a two-day commercial order, Vincent. I am a one-woman shop."
"I will provide four assistants from our catering logistics staff to do the heavy lifting, the loading, and the transport," Vincent countered, without missing a beat. "You supervise the assembly. You set the price."
Maggie set the envelope down. "Why me, Vincent? There are three commercial floral design studios in the Financial District that do corporate galas for breakfast."
Vincent did not answer immediately. He looked at her hands—her calloused fingers, the small green stain of chlorophyll beneath her left thumbnail, the neat, practical way she kept her workspace.
"Because those commercial studios design arrangements to impress bank directors," Vincent said, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifyingly sincere register. "You design arrangements to make people feel like they are not invisible. And Saturday night... my grandmother will be sitting at the head table. I want her to smell real cedar."
Maggie stared at him for a long moment. Beneath the expensive suit and the dangerous surname, there was something fundamentally unshakeable about this man. He did not use charm like a lever; he used clarity.
May you like
"Double my standard commercial rate," Maggie said. "And your four assistants arrive at seven on Saturday morning sharp. If any of them crushes a stem, they get sent back to the docks with a broom."
Vincent’s mouth twitched into that rare, stunning curve. "They will arrive at six-forty-five. And they will wear gloves."
