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“I won’t be long,” I say as Romero opens my door, then I walk into the florist. Surprisingly, he waits near the car and doesn’t bother coming inside. Nico must’ve asked him to keep his distance.
I push open the door, which sets off a small chime upon my entrance, and I stand in awe. The whole interior is white, except for the black timber floor. The walls, the ceiling, the counter, all of it is pure, stark white. The wall shelves are clear and floating, making the vibrant bunches of roses stand out as displays.
It is breathtaking and nothing like I have ever seen before.
“May I help you?” a lady asks with a very thick French accent. She is dressed impeccably. Like she belongs in a corporate office, with tailored pants, patent leather shoes, and bright red lipstick, the color matching the roses just behind her.
“It is beautiful here,” I say in amazement, as my eyes move away from her and back to the displays.
“Thank you. We import all our roses from France. We specialize in long-stemmed and perfumed,” she states as she walks over to me.
“After anything in particular?” she asks me, and my eyes rake over the selection before they land on a stunning red bouquet.
“I think I will take the red ones.”
“Ahh… the Jacquelines. They are beautiful.” My body goes still as my breath catches in my throat.
“What are they called?” I ask her, watching her intently to ensure I heard her right.
“The Jacqueline Rose. It is a specialty from one of our farms in France,” she says, turning and taking the bunch to the counter to wrap. My heart is bouncing out of my chest.
“Where is the farm in France? Is it a popular place?” I ask, trying to connect dots that I am not even sure are dots in the first place.
“It is a closed private family farm, but it is stunning,” she tells me with a smile as she rings up the purchase.
They cost a staggering amount, one I know I can’t afford, but I put it on my credit card anyway as I thank the lady and walk out. Romero pays no attention as I head back to the car and fall into the backseat, the soft comfort of the leather at least making me feel safe in this crazy life I have at the moment.
The traffic is light, so we reach the cemetery in good time, and I grab the flowers and step out of the car.
“I won’t be long. I will be just over there.” I point to the vicinity of where my mother is buried, and Romero nods, leaning his back against the car, and pulling out his cell phone, no doubt checking in with Nico.
But I am too wound up to care. I walk with the flowers tight in my hand toward my mother. My eyes are pinned to her gravestone as I bring them to my nose, their scent so elegant and beautiful. As my gaze roams her plot, I see the same fresh bunch of roses sitting at her headstone. They are pristine, like they have just been placed, and I put my matching bouquet down next to them. The color explosion once again vibrant against the gray, aged headstone.
I quickly look back to the car, seeing Romero still standing there. Yards away, his body is nearly a spec. Feeling secure that no one can hear me, I look back at my mother, and I start to talk.
“Hey, Mom,” I say quietly. “I’m back again—” But I’m interrupted.
“Are you Emilia Cole?” a man asks gruffly as he steps out from the tree nearby. My heart pounds in shock because it is the same man who was here last time and the same man who followed me to Bobby’s Diner. His voice is deep, lacquered with a French accent, and now my senses are heightened.
I quickly look back to Romero, his head still down, looking at his phone.
“Yes,” I say, wondering who he is as I begin to stand tentatively.
“You are coming with me.” Then he’s stalking toward me quickly. I am about to protest and move away, but his hand grips my elbow and his body slinks up beside me, pulling me close.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice pitching up an octave, surprised by his manhandling.
“This way, Miss Cole,” He murmurs close to my ear.
“What! Excuse me, but—” I stop walking and start raising my voice, but he continues to pull me along the path to a darkened parked car.
“Quiet and walk, unless you want a bullet in your brain, Miss Cole,” the man grits out. This time, I feel a push into my side and look down, seeing the shiny silver metal of a handgun pressing into my ribs.
“Oh my God...” My feet automatically follow him. His face is close, his breath skimming my ear as shivers run down my spine. My throat feels like it is closing up, my heart beats out of my chest, and my palms begin to sweat.
My eyes are wide as I glance around, trying to look back at Romero, but my kidnapper is firm in his grip. Bruises no doubt will color my skin as he pulls me along at pace.
“Hey!” I hear Romero yell in the distance, and I try to slow down so he can catch up. I have a split second to make a decision. Do I scream and run, or do I follow his command? But I am not just thinking of myself anymore. The gun is pressed right into my side, the little bean forming in my belly not safe in the slightest.
