The Peony Emergency
Sofia Rossi did not have time for organized crime. She barely had time for organized breathing.
“Enzo, if these petals are not exactly three millimetres apart, the bride will have a stroke, I will have a stroke, and then I will make sure you have a stroke," Sofia snapped, her thumb flying across her tablet screen as she adjusted a seating chart for the third time that hour.
The man mountain standing next to her, a bodyguard with a scar running from his ear to his jaw, actually whimpered. “Yes, Ms. Rossi. Three millimetres. I’ll get the ruler.”
Sofia adjusted her headset. “And tell the kitchen that if I see one more sprig of parsley on the salmon, I’m burning the building down for the insurance money. Parsley is for diners; we are doing Tuscan Minimalist.”
She marched through the back corridors of Il Tramonto, a five-star restaurant that usually hosted heads of state, but today was being used for a "private meeting" Sofia had been told to ignore. She was looking for a missing crate of vintage Cristal, and she was prepared to fight God himself to find it.
She kicked open a set of heavy double doors at the end of the hall. “If you're hiding the champagne in here, I swear on my mother’s grave—”
Sofia stopped.
The room was not a cellar. It was a private dining room draped in shadows and smelling of expensive tobacco and gun oil. Standing around a circular table were six men who looked like they had been carved out of granite. In the centre of the table was not a floral arrangement, but a very large, very silver handgun.
And holding that gun was Dante Moretti.
Dante was a legend in the city—the kind of legend mothers used to scare their children into finishing their vegetables. He was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit that cost more than Sofia’s university tuition, and possessed eyes that looked like they had been forged in the coldest part of the North Sea.
He slowly turned the barrel of the gun toward the door. Toward Sofia.
“You've interrupted a very private conversation, Signorina,” Dante said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble.
The other men reached into their jackets. The air in the room turned to ice. Most people would have fainted. Some would have begged.
Sofia Rossi looked at the table. Then she looked at Dante. Then she looked at the gun.
“Is that a Glock 17?” she asked, her voice flat.
Dante blinked, the lethal mask flickering for a split second. “It is.”
“Well, put it away,” Sofia said, marching into the room and slamming her clipboard onto the table next to the weapon. “You’re scratching the mahogany. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get bloodstains out of porous wood? And don't even get me started on the tablecloth. It’s a polyester blend, Dante. Honestly, I expected more from a man with your reputation. It’s tacky.“
The room went dead silent. One of the bodyguards actually dropped his cigarette.
Dante Moretti leaned forward, his shadow looming over her. “You’re the wedding planner,” he stated, his eyes narrowing as he tried to process the fact that she wasn't screaming.
“I am the wedding planner,” Sofia corrected, pointing a manicured finger at his chest. “And your sister’s wedding is in seventy-two hours. The original planner fled to Switzerland because she was 'scared of the family business," which means I am the only thing standing between you and a very angry Lucia Moretti. So, you can either shoot me and deal with a crying bride, or you can move your 'business' to the basement so I can start steaming these hideous drapes.”
Dante stared at her for a long, agonizing minute. Then, slowly, he tucked the gun back into his shoulder holster. A dark, amused glint appeared in his eyes—a look that was arguably more dangerous than the weapon.
“Enzo,” Dante said, never breaking eye contact with Sofia.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Cancel the hit on the florist,“ Dante murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. “I think I’ve found someone much more interesting to play with.”
Sofia rolled her eyes and pulled a measuring tape from around her neck. “Less talking, more standing still. You're the Brother of the Bride, Dante. We need to talk about your inseam.”
