Chapter 2 - The Photograph Behind the Medal
“You’re banned.”
Dante stopped inside my doorway.
“Good morning to you too.”
Murphy immediately ran toward him.
“Traitor,” I muttered.
Dante scratched behind Murphy’s ears.
“He has excellent judgment.”
“You sent me enough chrysanthemums to bury Massachusetts.”
“You complained about forty-seven.”
“So you sent four thousand?”
“Four thousand eight hundred.”
I stared at him.
“That distinction is exactly why normal people are afraid of you.”
His smile disappeared.
“Mara, I need to show you something.”
He placed an old photograph on the counter.
A young woman stood outside my flower shop.
My breath caught.
“That’s my mother.”
“Evelyn Ellis?”
“Yes.”
Standing beside her was another woman.
Dark hair.
Beautiful.
And around her neck—
Saint Michael.
I looked at Dante.
“Your mother?”
“Isabella Moretti.”
The photograph had been taken sixteen years earlier.
“What were they doing together?”
“That’s what I need to know.”
“My mother died nine years ago.”
“I know.”
Something about his tone irritated me.
“You investigated my family?”
“After you saved my life? Yes.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
I pushed the photograph back.
“What does this have to do with Julian?”
“Everything.”
Dante turned the picture over.
Three handwritten words were on the back.
Evelyn knows where.
I recognized my mother’s handwriting.
My stomach tightened.
“Where what?”
“That’s the problem.”
Dante leaned against the counter.
“Sixteen years ago, my father’s accountant disappeared with records capable of destroying half the Moretti organization.”
“And?”
“My father believed the accountant betrayed him.”
“You don’t?”
“The accountant was my uncle.”
I stared.
“Your mother’s brother?”
“Gabriel.”
Dante nodded.
“He disappeared the same week my mother died.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
I heard the hesitation.
“You don’t believe that either.”
“No.”
The bell above the door rang.
A man entered wearing a gray coat.
Dante immediately became still.
The stranger placed a bouquet on the counter.
“For Mara Ellis.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“I know.”
He walked out.
Dante grabbed the bouquet before I could.
Inside the roses was an envelope.
He opened it.
A photograph fell out.
It showed me entering my apartment the previous night.
On the back:
GIVE MORETTI THE MEDAL AND WALK AWAY.
My mouth went dry.
Dante looked toward the street.
“Lock the door.”
“Dante—”
“Now.”
I locked it.
“Julian?”
“Yes.”
“Why does he want the medal?”
“I don’t know.”
I took it from beneath the register.
Dante examined it.
“You said your mother gave it to you.”
“She did.”
“Maybe there’s something inside.”
“It’s solid.”
I turned it over.
Scratches covered the back.
My father had taught me restoration work when I was young. Old garden tools. Antique vases. Mechanical irrigation systems.
“These aren’t random scratches.”
Dante looked closer.
“What are they?”
“Letters.”
We cleaned the medal beneath my work lamp.
Slowly, tiny markings appeared.
E.E. — GLASS — 17
Dante looked at me.
“E.E.”
“Evelyn Ellis.”
My mother.
“Glass?”
We both turned.
At the back of the shop stood the greenhouse my father had built for her.
Dante said, “Seventeen.”
“There are eighteen glass ceiling panels.”
We found the seventeenth.
Hidden inside the wooden frame was a brass key.
Dante stared at it.
“Your mother hid this.”
“Apparently.”
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.”
Murphy suddenly growled.
Dante turned.
A black SUV was parked across the street.
“Stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Mara.”
“You brought this into my shop.”
“Technically Julian brought it.”
“You know what I mean.”
His phone rang.
He answered.
A voice spoke loudly enough for me to hear.
“Boss, we found Mercer.”
“Where?”
“He wants a meeting.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“With one condition.”
“What?”
“He says bring the florist.”
I stared at Dante.
“No.”
I folded my arms.
“You don’t get to decide.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because Julian wants you for something.”
“And maybe I want answers.”
Dante stepped closer.
“You walked into ten armed men once. You don’t need to make it a hobby.”
“Then tell me why my mother’s initials are carved into your mother’s medal.”
Silence.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Dante looked away.
That answered me.
I picked up the key.
“I’m going.”
His eyes hardened.
“That wasn’t a request.”
“Neither was mine.”
For several seconds we stared at each other.
Finally Dante sighed.
“You are the most difficult woman I have ever met.”
“I arrange weddings for a living. You’re not even in my top ten.”
Despite himself, he almost smiled.
Then his phone buzzed.
He read the message.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Dante turned the screen toward me.
A photograph showed an old storage facility near Boston Harbor.
Beneath it were five words.
ASK MARA ABOUT LOCKER SEVENTEEN.
May you like
I looked at the brass key in my hand.
Suddenly, we knew exactly where we were going.
