Chapter 3 - Unwanted Deliveries
Three days passed before Harper saw the black sedan again.
Her flower shop, Petals & Grace, was usually a haven of tranquility. Located on a bustling corner downtown, it was known across the district for custom wedding arrangements and cheerful storefront window displays. But Tuesday morning brought an abrupt end to that peace.
A delivery van pulled up directly in front of the shop, though no package was marked for standard drop-off. Instead, two men in sharp, tailored black suits stepped out of the vehicle. They didn’t enter as customers. They stationed themselves quietly on either side of the front glass door, their posture rigid, hands clasped behind their backs, scanning every passerby with hawk-like intensity.
Harper, standing behind the counter trimming the thorns off a batch of crimson roses, felt her stomach drop.
The door chimed.
A tall, impeccably dressed man with silver-streaked hair at his temples walked inside. He moved with an effortless, expensive grace that immediately signaled he didn’t belong in a retail flower shop smelling of eucalyptus and damp soil.
“Miss Harper Ellison?” the man asked, his voice smooth and cultured.
Harper wiped her hands on her apron, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“My name is Marcus,” the man said politely, offering a thin, formal smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I represent Mr. Damian Vance.”
The name Vance hung in the air like a sudden drop in barometric pressure. Even for someone as insulated from the underworld as a local florist, the name Vance was whispered with a mixture of awe and absolute dread across the city. The Vances controlled the shipping ports, the financial district, and the vast criminal syndicates that silently governed Chicago’s underground economy.
“Oh,” Harper managed, her throat suddenly dry. “I... I think there’s been a mistake. I don’t know any Damian Vance.”
Marcus chuckled softly, a dry, humorless sound. “Mr. Vance rarely forgets anyone—especially someone who takes the liberty of kissing him in a rain-soaked alleyway.”
Harper swallowed hard. “That was a misunderstanding. I thought he was... well, it doesn't matter what I thought. Tell him I’m glad he’s fine, and he doesn't need to send his bodyguards to intimidate me.”
“They aren't here to intimidate you, Miss Ellison,” Marcus corrected gently, stepping closer to the counter and placing a heavy, embossed black envelope down on the wooden surface. “They are here to ensure your safety. Mr. Vance wishes to express his gratitude properly. Consider this an invitation—and a reminder that you are now under his personal protection.”
May you like
Before Harper could find her voice to refuse, Marcus nodded respectfully, turned on his heel, and walked out of the shop, leaving the two men standing vigil outside.
Harper stared at the black envelope as if it were ticking. When she finally reached out and flipped it open, a single card fell out, inscribed with a handwritten address in heavy black ink, along with a direct phone number and three words: Dinner tonight. Eight o’clock.
