.Poor Florist Delivered Funeral Flowers to Wrong Address—The Mafia Boss Opened Door With a Gun скачать в хорошем качестве

.Poor Florist Delivered Funeral Flowers to Wrong Address—The Mafia Boss Opened Door With a Gun

.Poor Florist Delivered Funeral Flowers to Wrong Address—The Mafia Boss Opened Door With a Gun The van's heater had stopped working somewhere around Third Avenue, and now Emma Chen's fingers were so numb she could barely grip the steering wheel. February in Chicago turned everything into shades of gray—sky, buildings, even the people hunched against the wind looked colorless. She pulled up to the address scrawled on the delivery slip, double-checking the numbers against the elegant townhouse in front of her. 2847 North Astor Street. The Gold Coast. Where old money lived behind iron gates and security systems that cost more than Emma's entire year's rent. She'd delivered flowers here before, always to addresses that made her acutely aware of the twelve dollars in her checking account and the overdue notices stuffed in her kitchen drawer. The funeral arrangement in the back of her van was beautiful, she had to admit. White lilies and roses, eucalyptus branches, a spray of baby's breath that caught the gray afternoon light. The card read simple condolences for Margaret Castellano, beloved mother and grandmother. Emma had assembled it herself this morning, her boss too hungover to come in, leaving her to handle everything alone. Again. She grabbed the arrangement, heavy enough that she had to brace it against her hip, and made her way up the stone steps. The townhouse loomed above her, all dark brick and arched windows, the kind of place that had probably stood here for a hundred years watching the city change around it. If you're enjoying this story so far, don't forget to hit the like button and subscribe! Drop a comment telling me where in the world you're watching from—I love hearing from you! Emma's finger had barely left the doorbell when she heard footsteps inside. Fast, purposeful footsteps that didn't match the slow grief of someone receiving funeral flowers. The door swung open. And she found herself staring directly at a gun. The man holding it was tall, maybe six-foot-three, dressed in a black suit that probably cost what Emma made in three months. Dark hair, darker eyes that assessed her in the half-second it took her brain to catch up with what she was seeing. The gun was silver, large, pointing directly at her chest with the kind of casual steadiness that suggested he knew exactly how to use it. Emma's mouth went dry. The flower arrangement slipped from her numb fingers, crashing to the stone steps in an explosion of water, glass, and white petals. "Who sent you? " His voice was low, controlled, with an edge that made her heart slam against her ribs. "I—I'm just delivering flowers," Emma stammered, her hands instinctively rising. "I'm a florist. From Petal & Stem on Halsted. This is 2847 North Astor, right? " His eyes narrowed, scanning past her to the street, then back to her face. "You're alone? " "Yes. Just me. I deliver flowers. That's all I do. " Her voice was shaking now, matching the tremor in her hands. "Please, I think there's been a mistake. " Behind him, another man appeared in the doorway. Broader, older, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. His hand rested inside his jacket—on another gun, Emma realized with fresh terror. "Boss? " the scarred man said quietly. "Want me to handle this? " The first man—the boss—held up one hand, still watching Emma with that unnerving intensity. "Who's the arrangement for? " "Margaret Castellano. " Emma's voice came out as barely a whisper.