Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“No cactus. Right. Okay, then . . .” The florist turns around looking over the displayed arrangements, then rushes toward another shelf in the corner. Sweat glistens on his forehead, and droplets start to slide down the side of his face. “Tulips are a great choice.”

He brings over a vase filled with red-colored flowers and lifts it in front of me. I pull out one steam and start inspecting the inside of the bloom.

“What’s the little black dart-like things?”

“Um, well, those are stamens, but there is very little pollen on them. You see, every plant reprod—”

“Spare me the biology lesson, grandpa.” I grab the scissors hanging on the wall beside the wrapping paper, then turn the flower upside down and carefully cut off the dangly things with the black powder on them. “Does this make it pollen-free?”

The guy stares at the flower I’m holding. “I-I guess so.”

“Perfect.” I toss him the scissors. He almost stabs himself in the stomach trying to catch them. “I need you to cut off the little fuckers from each one. You have five minutes.”

“But, sir. There are at least seventy tulips. I—”

I take a step toward him.

“Sure. Five minutes.”

As the florist gets to work on depollinating the tulips at a nearby workbench, I take a seat behind his counter and start going through the drawers, looking for a red pen. I find one in a box full of paper clips, then grab one of the fancy cards from the display rack.

By the time the florist finishes with his task, I’ve ruined more than a dozen cards, and the floor around my feet is covered with crumpled glossy paper. I glare at my latest attempt, narrowing my eyes at the two words I wrote. My handwriting looks terrible, but it’s the best I can do.

“Until next time, gramps.” I throw a few Benjamins on the countertop and grab the bouquet out of the florist’s hands. Stuffing my note into my pocket, I leave the shop.

No milk. Great.

I slam the fridge door shut and carry my bowl of muesli to the living room. The TV is playing the news on mute as I slump onto the cushions and start shoveling my dry breakfast cereal into my mouth.

At Dad’s house, breakfast was always a lavish affair, just as lunch and dinner were. Eggs, sausages, pastry, cheese, fruits, and whatnot. It was always served in the large dining room ateight thirty, sharp. The possibility of skipping it was nonexistent. Dad always insisted that he wanted the whole family to eat at least one meal together. I always found it depressing. With Mom and Elmo gone, and Massimo locked up, those dreadful breakfasts always reminded me of just how broken our family actually is. However, eating anywhere besides the dining room was unthinkable, and it was only after I moved out that I realized how liberating it was to have your food whenever and wherever you wanted.

The anchor is reporting an international news story while images of several people are shown over his left shoulder on the screen. I grab the remote and turn up the volume. Something about an assassination of an oil tycoon in Budapest. The man and his entire security team were gunned down, execution style, at his private estate just outside the capital. At present time, the local authorities have no leads on the parties responsible for the massacre, or information on a potential motive for the killing.

As ghastly as the news story is, I can’t help but think that if it was a professional hit, the police wouldn’t find a thing.

Using hitmen-for-hire is typical within the Mafia world. They are ridiculously expensive, but if you want someone gone without any trace that could lead back to you, it’s the only guaranteed way. It’s not a secret that Camorra tends to use these assassins quite often, especially when someone stands in the Clan’s way. I know of at least five situations where high-ranking members of other crime organizations in the US ended up dead, and their deaths were left unsolved for years.

I guess we’re kind of lucky. Since my dad took over the Boston Family, he’s been trying to maintain good relationships with other Cosa Nostra factions as well as with our competitors. He does his thing and never steps on anyone’s toes. I know that some of the capos don’t support this strategy, but our businessinvestors do. Skirmishes and internal wars eat into the profits too much.

I turn off the TV and take my empty bowl into the kitchen. As I’m heading toward the sink, I catch a flash of red out of the corner of my eye. Stopping, I turn toward my “study nook” that I’ve set up by the balcony door. Wedged between two oversized floor pillows, just next to my laptop, is a big blue pot, similar to the one I use when making pasta. Inside is a bunch of red tulips. Butterflies invade the pit of my stomach as I approach and crouch in front of the flowers. Next to the pot, on the floor, is a beautiful silver card. Its glossy, satin-like elegance is in complete contrast with a barely readable note scribed in red ink.

No pollen

I cover my mouth with my hand and stare at the tulips. Now, I can see the potisactually mine. I used it to prepare ravioli when my demon was here two weeks ago.

“He’s back,” I mumble into my palm.

My phone starts ringing somewhere in the bedroom, but I don’t move from my spot. It’s likely Zara with a reminder that I’m expected at Dad’s for lunch later today. As if I could forget. He called me yesterday, demanding my presence, and my unquestioning obedience in this case.

Carefully, I take one of the flowers from the pot. When it comes to tulips, I get into sneezing fits more often than not. They are always a gamble for me. This time, though, I don’t care if it happens. I bury my nose into the bell-shaped blossom, inhaling once. Then one more time.

No sneezing.

I pick up the pot and take it to the dining table, setting it in the middle. It looks completely out of place on the spotlessglass surface, but I don’t even think about exchanging it for a more appropriate vase. Returning my long-forgotten empty cereal bowl to the kitchen before heading into my bedroom to get ready for my day, I spot a new magnet on the fridge. It has been placed low, all the way under the set Zara had brought for me. The image shows a bridge and an old-looking building in the background. The caption under the bridge readsHungary.

* * *

I stare at my father, at a loss for words.