Armani opens the door, and seeing a rectangular box lying on the step, he pauses and gestures for me to wait. “Stay back.” Crouching, he carefully removes the lid, then a frown forms on his forehead. “It’s roses. You can come.” As I step closer, Armani takes the note out of the flowers and reads it. His features darken as his controlled demeanor slips, and the mafioso in him rises to the surface. His eyes flick to me. “It’s for you.”
