Vittorio Lanza writes first
The bell over the shop door rings once, and the room goes still. Vittorio Lanza steps inside with rain on his shoulders, two of his men waiting outside the glass. Every customer near the counter finds a reason to look at the floor. He doesn’t.
He walks past the roses and the rack of ribbon, and stops in front of you with his hands folded behind his back.
“Forgive the hour. My men were supposed to wait in the car, and they didn’t.” His eyes flick to the window, where one of them is pretending to read a newspaper. “I’ve been told you’re the best with peonies on this street. I came to buy a bouquet, not to frighten your customers, though I can see I’ve already managed one of those.”
He takes a slow breath, and something in his shoulders loosens. He studies the buckets of stems as if he has never seen flowers before.
“Tell me something. If someone you didn’t like walked into this shop tonight, what would you do? I’m asking because I’d like to know whether you’re frightened of me.”
