Page 3 of His to Destroy

There is peace in repetition. In measured routines. In the quiet pulse of predictability that cushions every hour of my day. For the last eight years, I have lived this way—waking before dawn, opening my flower shop with the rising sun, tending to delicate petals with calloused hands and a fragile heart that still bruises too easily.

My name is Mira Rossi now. Almeria Spadafora, a past I’m still trying and hoping to forget. And to most people in this town, I am no more than the friendly florist on the corner of Bellamy and East.

But beneath the name and the smiles is a woman constantly looking over her shoulder.

I built this life in pieces. One small, careful fragment at a time. A rented apartment above the shop. A name that doesn’t belong to me. Cash-only payments. No social media. No photographs.

And Luca. My son. My everything.

Seven years old, with the most serious eyes I’ve ever seen. He asks questions I can’t answer and reads people in ways that unsettle me. He has my mouth, my chin, my laugh—but those eyes don’t belong to me. They belong to a nightmare I never wanted to remember.

I tuck him into bed with a kiss every night and whisper promises I’m terrified I won’t keep.

Promises like, "You’re safe."

Because safety is an illusion. I know that better than most.

***

It’s Thursday. Mid-afternoon. The light streaming through the windows glints off polished vases and glass jars filled with cut peonies, chrysanthemums, and daffodils. I hum to myself as I trim rose stems, the shop fragrant and still. There’s a certain magic to this place—a soft sanctuary of color and scent, untouched by the violence of the world I left behind.

Luca is in the back corner, perched on a stool with his coloring book. He hums a tune under his breath, his humming intermingling with me, extracting little giggles from him when my hum grows louder, and making my heart flutter. Our collective melody also makes my chest ache with what I want to believe is hope.

The bell above the door chimes just then.

I glance up with a smile, ready to welcome another customer for the day.

Then freeze.

This is no customer.

He walks in like a storm being held back by a thread and even before his eyes raise to lock on me, I know who he is. The only face I can recognize from my nightmares.

Gaspare Colosimo.

My breath catches, and for a moment, I genuinely think I might faint. It has been years, and yet nothing could prepare me for this. For him.

He’s undeniably older, and no doubt harsher than when we last set eyes on each other. He wears a black wool coat over a slate suit, his shoulders broader than I remember. His face is sharper, sculpted by time and experience. The years seem to have been fair on him. One could argue that he’s gotten hotter. Sexier, even. But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. That familiar cold intensity—now quieter and clearly deadlier.

He scans the shop once, slowly. Then his eyes resettle back on me.

And I am nineteen again. A girl with trembling hands and a heart full of shame.

He should not be here.

He cannot be here.

I force my voice into steadiness. "Can I help you?"

He doesn’t speak. Just takes a step forward. Then another. Until he’s close enough for me to smell the faintest trace of his cologne—amber and something darker, like smoke.

“Almeria?”

My name on his lips sounds like a question. Like a wound.

“I’m sorry,” I say. "You must have the wrong person."

“Bullshit.”

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