Chapter 10 - THE BROOKLYN APOTHECARY
Two weeks later.
The rain in Brooklyn was softer than the storm in Lake Forest, falling in a gentle, steady mist against the glass front of my shop on Atlantic Avenue.
The street smelled of wet asphalt, roasting coffee from the bakery down the block, and the rich, earthy scent of dried chamomile hanging from the wooden rafters above my counter.
It felt like a different universe.
No armed men in dark suits standing by the door. No security cameras tracking my every move. No bullet holes in the walls or bloodstains on Persian rugs. Just the quiet hum of the radiator in the corner and the stray cat, Barnaby, sleeping peacefully on his velvet cushion.
I sat behind the register, using Dante’s antique silver mortar and pestle to grind dried valerian root for a local customer who suffered from insomnia. The silver felt cold and heavy in my hand, a silent anchor connecting me to the three days that had changed my life forever.
The morning paper lay open on the counter beside me.
On page four, a small, unobtrusive article was highlighted in black ink:
CHICAGO BUSINESSMAN MATTEO MORETTI DIES IN PRIVATE PLANE CRASH OVER LAKE MICHIGAN; POLICE CITE MECHANICAL FAILURE.
I stared at the headline for a long time.
A plane crash. Clean, remote, unquestioned by the public. The Moretti family had wrapped up its loose ends with the same quiet precision they used for everything else. Matteo was gone, Vincent was gone, and Dante Moretti remained the undisputed king of Chicago from his bed in Lake Forest.
The bell over the front door chimed against the glass.
I looked up, expecting Mrs. Higgins coming in for her weekly supply of elderberry syrup.
Instead, a tall man in a tailored charcoal coat stepped through the door.
He didn't have wet shoes. He didn't carry a leather duffel bag. He stood by the door, shook his umbrella, and set it in the brass stand by the entrance.
It was Leo Romano.
I set the silver pestle down on the marble block, keeping my expression neutral. “We’re closed, Mr. Romano.”
Leo smiled—a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes this time. He walked over to the counter, taking off his leather gloves and placing them neatly beside his hat.
“I’m not here on business, Ms. Rossi,” Leo said gently. “I was in New York settling some shipping logistics for the port authorities. I thought I’d stop by and see how the florist was doing.”
“The florist is fine,” I replied, wiping my hands on my apron. “The shop is quiet, the tea is fresh, and nobody has shot at me in fourteen days.”
“That sounds terribly boring,” Leo teased softly.
“I like boring,” I countered, though a small smile betrayed me. “How is he?”
Leo leaned against the wooden counter, his face growing serious. “He’s walking again. With a cane, but he’s walking. The doctor says the nerve damage in his legs is ninety percent reversed. His liver function is back to normal.”
“And the white lines on his nails?”
“Fading,” Leo said. “Just like you said they would.”
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, thick cream envelope stamped with a red wax seal—a crest featuring a dragon wrapped around a rose.
He slipped the envelope across the counter toward me.
I looked at it, but didn't open it. “What is this?”
“An invitation,” Leo said. “Dante is hosting a small gathering at the house next month. Just close friends, family, and a few political allies who need to see that he’s very much alive. He wants you there.”
“I don't belong in that world, Leo,” I said quietly, looking at the red wax seal. “I’m a scientist. I heal people. I don't sit at tables with men who put bodies in Lake Michigan.”
“Dante knows who you are, Camilla,” Leo said softly. “And he knows what you did. You didn't just save his life—you saved his humanity. You looked at a man the whole world called a monster and saw someone worth fighting for.”
I looked out the window at the rain sliding down the glass, thinking back to that dim bedroom in Lake Forest, to the terrified, powerful man who had held my hand while his body broke under the poison.
“Is he still scotch-drinking?” I asked.
Leo chuckled. “He tried once last week. I caught him pouring a finger of Macallan in his study. I took the glass out of his hand and threw it into the fireplace.”
“Good,” I said. “Tell him if I catch him drinking hard liquor before his blood panel clears, I’ll fly back to Chicago and poison him myself with bitter almonds.”
Leo laughed loudly—a sound that seemed completely out of place for a mafia enforcer, yet entirely right in my small shop.
“I’ll deliver the warning personally,” Leo said, picking up his hat and gloves. “The invitation stands, Camilla. April fifteenth. There’s a plane ticket inside if you change your mind.”
He turned and walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the brass latch. He looked back at me over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on the silver mortar on my counter.
May you like
“By the way,” Leo added softly. “Your grandfather would have been proud of you.”
Before I could answer, the door chimed, and Leo Romano vanished into the Brooklyn rain.
