The Dying Mafia Boss Called Me a Florist—Then I Found the Poison in His Whiskey...

Six months later.

Spring had finally arrived in Chicago, turning the gray, freezing shores of Lake Michigan into a vibrant expanse of green and blue. The air was crisp, carrying the sweet scent of blooming lilac and damp earth through the open windows of the Lake Forest mansion.

I stood on the second-story balcony—the very balcony where Vincent had met his end half a year ago.

The heavy stone floor had been replaced, the iron railings polished to a brilliant shine, and the room behind me redecorated in warm oak and cream linens. There was no trace left of the siege. No smell of gunpowder. No echoes of gunfire.

Down on the grand lawn, fifty guests in formal attire mingled beneath a white silk canopy. Senators, judges, union leaders, and high-ranking family capos raised champagne glasses under the afternoon sun, laughing and listening to a live jazz quartet playing near the marble fountain.

A soft, measured tap echoed behind me.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I turned around.

Dante Moretti walked out onto the balcony, leaning lightly on a dark ebony cane topped with a polished silver skull.

He wore a bespoke navy blue tuxedo, his dark hair neatly combed back, his jaw clean-shaven. The gray, corpse-like pallor that had covered his skin six months ago was completely gone, replaced by the healthy, bronze tone of a man in full vigor. His posture was straight, his shoulders broad, his black eyes sharp and alive.

He looked every bit the Don.

“You’re avoiding my guests, Ms. Rossi,” Dante said, his deep voice smooth and clear, completely devoid of the raspy wheeze that had plagued his lungs during the poisoning.

“I’m an apothecary, Mr. Moretti,” I said, leaning back against the marble railing. “I get hives around politicians and mobsters in expensive suits.”

Dante let out a rich, booming laugh that echoed across the terrace. He walked up beside me, resting his hands on his ebony cane, looking out over his domain.

“They’re the same thing, Camilla,” Dante remarked dryly. “One just wears a flag pin on his lapel.”

I looked down at his hands resting on the cane handle. His fingernails were clean, pink, and smooth—the white horizontal bands of arsenic poisoning completely grown out and gone.

“You look healthy,” I said softly.

“I feel alive,” Dante replied, turning his gaze toward me. “My doctors at Northwestern cleared my organ panel yesterday. They called it a medical miracle.”

“It wasn't a miracle,” I corrected. “It was three months of chelation therapy, a strict anti-inflammatory diet, and complete abstinence from poisoned scotch.”

Dante reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two small, heavy crystal tumblers.

My eyes narrowed instantly. “Dante...”

“Relax,” Dante smiled, holding up a glass bottle filled with a dark red, fragrant liquid. “It’s elderberry and hibiscus tea. Brewed fresh by a small apothecary in Brooklyn.”

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, a smile breaking across my face. “You scared me for a second.”

Dante poured the cooled tea into the two crystal tumblers, handing one to me. He raised his glass toward the blue sky.

“To survival,” Dante said.

“To survival,” I echoed, clinking my glass against his.

We drank together in silence, watching the spring breeze rustle the oak trees along the driveway. Down below, Leo Romano caught my eye from the crowd, raising his champagne glass in a quiet, respectful toast before returning to his conversation with a city alderman.

“Leo tells me your new clinic on Michigan Avenue is opening next month,” Dante said softly.

“The construction is finished,” I replied. “We’re installing the research lab this week. We’re going to offer free toxicological screenings for low-income families in West Chicago—people who are exposure-risked from the old industrial plants.”

Dante looked at me, his sharp black eyes showing a rare moment of genuine admiration. “You took my money and used it to build a sanctuary.”

“I took your money and used it to save lives,” I corrected. “That’s what I do.”

Dante set his empty glass on the stone wall. He reached out and touched my hand lightly—a gentle, respectful gesture from a man who held the power of life and death over an entire city.

“If you ever need anything, Camilla,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a solemn, binding promise. “A favor from a senator, protection from a threat, or just someone to clear a path... you call me. The Moretti family owes you a debt that can never be fully repaid.”

“I hope I never have to call in that debt, Mr. Moretti,” I said softly.

“Dante,” he corrected with a small smile. “Call me Dante.”

I looked out over the grand estate, at the sunshine reflecting off the water of Lake Michigan in the distance.

Six months ago, I had been a simple shopkeeper grinding lavender behind a cracked counter in Brooklyn, terrified for my life as armed men barged into my world.

Now, I stood beside the most dangerous man in Chicago—not as his victim, not as his servant, but as his savior.