Chapter 2 - THE MAN MY BROTHER TRIED TO WARN
On the thirteenth morning of my marriage, Nicholas DeMarco was standing in my flower shop holding my mother’s pruning knife.
Not threateningly.
That almost made it stranger.
He turned the wooden handle beneath the light.
“Your mother’s?”
“Yes.”
“You keep a lot of sharp objects.”
“I sell roses. Roses fight back.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
Whitaker Flowers had been closed for twelve days.
Nicholas never ordered me to close it.
He simply placed two men outside after Corsetti’s visit and said, “Open when you’re comfortable.”
That morning, I had decided I was comfortable enough to try.
At least until I saw the black sedan across Charles Street.
Same place for forty minutes.
Nicholas noticed me noticing it.
“Mine,” he said.
I looked at him.
“You could have told me.”
“You could have asked.”
“I shouldn’t have to wonder which cars belong to my husband and which belong to men planning to throw me into the harbor.”
“Fair.”
He took out his phone.
“From now on, Rosa will give you the plate numbers.”
I stared.
“That easy?”
“You gave me a reasonable complaint.”
I hated how often he did that.
No argument.
No performance.
He just changed the thing.
Nicholas placed the knife back on my worktable.
Beside it sat the green ledger.
I had brought it downstairs that morning because I was tired of treating my mother’s old bookkeeping book like something radioactive.
Nicholas had never tried to take it.
He had never entered my locked bedroom.
He had never even asked to see it again.
That bothered me more than pressure would have.
“You want this,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why aren’t you demanding it?”
“Because you said no.”
“That has never stopped men like you.”
His expression cooled.
“Men like me?”
“Mafia bosses.”
“Very broad category.”
I folded my arms.
“Do you deny it?”
“No.”
He pulled out one of my old wooden stools and sat.
“I deny that power requires me to ignore every boundary placed in front of me.”
I opened the ledger.
“Sam thought differently.”
That changed him.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“What do you know about my brother?”
“More than you do.”
“Then start talking.”
Nicholas looked toward the front windows.
“Lock the door.”
My stomach tightened.
“It’s already locked.”
He nodded.
“Sam came to me nineteen days before he died.”
I forgot to breathe.
“You told me he made a mistake.”
“He did.”
“What mistake?”
“He believed I would trust him without proof.”
I stared at him.
“He met you?”
“In a restaurant near the harbor.”
“Why?”
“Because he said someone was using DeMarco shipping routes without my permission.”
I looked down at the ledger.
“Corsetti?”
Nicholas shook his head.
“Someone working with him.”
“Who?”
“Sam wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why not?”
“He wanted protection first.”
I laughed bitterly.
“And you refused.”
“I offered protection in exchange for the ledger.”
My eyes lifted.
“He didn’t give it to you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Nicholas looked at me.
“He said, ‘If I give this to you before I know who you trust, I may be handing it to the man I’m afraid of.’”
The shop went quiet.
That sounded exactly like Sam.
Suspicious.
Stubborn.
Always convinced he could carry danger by himself if it meant I didn’t have to.
“What did you do?”
“I told him to leave.”
“You sent my brother away?”
“Yes.”
“Knowing somebody might be after him?”
“I knew he was frightened.”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened.
“I did not know he was right.”
For the first time, I heard something beneath his control.
Regret.
I turned pages.
“What did D mean?”
“I assumed DeMarco.”
“You assumed?”
“Sam used codes.”
“You’re Nicholas DeMarco. People probably carve your initials into trees when they’re terrified.”
“D could be docks. Delivery. DeMarco. Dominic.”
I looked up.
“Who’s Dominic?”
“My uncle.”
The answer came too quickly to be meaningless.
“Does he work for you?”
“He advises me.”
“On what?”
“Things you would prefer your husband did not need advice about.”
“So yes.”
Nicholas stood.
“Clara.”
“What?”
“If you start suspecting every person whose name begins with D, Boston is going to become exhausting.”
“It already is.”
I flipped another page.
Three entries had been marked with tiny ink flowers.
A daisy.
A rose.
A tulip.
I had seen them all night and thought they were meaningless doodles.
Now something clicked.
“Sam didn’t doodle.”
Nicholas came closer.
“What?”
I pointed.
“He hated drawing.”
“That flower looks like it was attacked by a spider.”
“That’s how I know.”
I pulled an old delivery book from beneath the register.
Whitaker Flowers still kept paper copies because my mother trusted computers the way she trusted supermarket tomatoes.
I searched dates.
March 4.
Daisy.
March 18.
Rose.
April 2.
Tulip.
Each date in Sam’s ledger corresponded with a large cash movement.
According to Nicholas, Sam had altered shipping accounts on those nights.
But my delivery book showed something else.
I pointed.
“March fourth. Sam signed for me.”
Nicholas read the line.
SAM — 6:14 P.M.
“March eighteenth.”
SAM — 7:02 P.M.
“April second.”
SAM — 5:48 P.M.
Nicholas looked at the ledger.
“What time were the account changes?”
I found them.
6:31.
7:19.
6:03.
My skin prickled.
“Our computer was upstairs.”
“So?”
“Sam couldn’t have been at the harbor.”
Nicholas became very still.
“The system logs said he was.”
“Then someone used his access.”
Nicholas took the ledger.
Not from me.
He held out his hand first.
I gave it to him.
For five minutes, he read without speaking.
Then he placed it down.
“Clara.”
I knew from his tone.
“What?”
“The six hundred twelve thousand dollars.”
“Yes?”
“It wasn’t withdrawn all at once.”
“I know.”
“These flower marks appear beside almost every transfer.”
I counted.
Twelve marks.
Different flowers.
Twelve dates.
My brother had been leaving me breadcrumbs.
Not accounting clues.
Flowers.
The one language he knew I would eventually understand.
My throat tightened.
“He knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That people would blame him.”
Nicholas looked toward the street.
The black sedan was still there.
His sedan.
For once I was grateful.
I turned another page.
Near the bottom, Sam had drawn a small flower I knew instantly.
White dahlia.
My mother’s favorite.
Beside it:
D — SUNDAY — 7:00.
I swallowed.
“What happens Sunday at seven?”
Nicholas said nothing.
I looked at him.
“Nicholas.”
His eyes met mine.
“My family has dinner.”
A chill moved through me.
“Who comes?”
“My aunt.”
He paused.
“My cousin Michael.”
Another pause.
“And Dominic.”
I stared at the tiny white dahlia.
“Your uncle.”
“Yes.”
“The D.”
“I don’t know.”
But his face told me something worse.
He had wondered before.
That Sunday, I sat at Nicholas DeMarco’s dining table for the first time.
Rosa served baked cod, potatoes and green beans.
Aunt Sofia talked too much because silence made her nervous.
Michael DeMarco complained about parking.
Dominic DeMarco sat at Nicholas’s right hand.
Sixty-one.
Silver at the temples.
Warm voice.
The kind of man who remembered to ask whether I liked my wine.
He did not look like someone my brother would fear.
Which meant nothing.
Halfway through dinner, Dominic smiled at me.
“Your shop is on Charles Street?”
“Yes.”
“Sam used to bring flowers from there.”
My fork stopped.
Nicholas noticed.
I looked at Dominic.
“You knew my brother?”
His smile faded.
“A little.”
“How little?”
“Enough to know he was in trouble.”
Nicholas set down his glass.
“Dominic.”
His uncle looked at him.
“What?”
“You told me you barely knew him.”
“I barely did.”
I kept staring.
“When did you last see him?”
Dominic’s eyes returned to mine.
“Months before he died.”
The answer was smooth.
Too smooth.
I reached beneath the table and touched the green ledger inside my bag.
Then I noticed Dominic’s right hand.
A pale scar crossed the base of his thumb.
Exactly where Nicholas had one.
Family scars did not surprise me.
What did surprise me was the brass key ring beside Dominic’s plate.
A tiny metal flower hung from it.
Worn almost smooth.
I stopped breathing.
My mother had ordered three of those key rings when she opened Whitaker Flowers.
One for herself.
One for me.
One for Sam.
Mine was upstairs in my locked bedroom.
My mother’s was buried with her.
And Sam’s had disappeared the night he died.
May you like
Dominic followed my eyes.
Then calmly closed his hand around the little brass flower.
