Mafia king and demon, Noah Gabriel is everyone's fear, and the very mention of his name makes one shudder.
Everyone adores Isabella Rose Robinson, who is known as an angel, and she has her unique style of speaking.
After they meet, Noah forces her...
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Noah's POV:
I stare out the window, the city's lights blurring into streaks of color as the car speeds through the streets. Yesterday's news plays on a loop in my mind, a nightmare I can't wake up from. Lung cancer. Stage four. My whole world has tilted on its axis, and I feel like I'm losing my grip.
Sebastian's voice pulls me back to the present. "I need all the phone numbers of the top oncologists who specialize in lung cancer," I say, my voice colder than I intend. He nods, sensing the urgency in my tone.
The news has shattered my stone-cold heart into pieces I didn't even know existed. I can't lose her. Not after finding her.
"May I ask why?" Sebastian ventures, his usual confidence faltering. I can see the question burning behind his eyes, but I'm not ready to answer it. Not yet. Not until I have a plan.
"Maybe later," I reply, cutting off the conversation. It's not my story to tell, not without her permission.
The car comes to a stop, and I step out, heading into the florist's shop. The scent of fresh flowers hits me like a wave, a reminder of the beauty I'm trying to hold on to.
"Sale, come posso aiutarla?" The florist's voice is warm, friendly. She's unaware of the storm brewing inside me.
"Ho bisogno di un mazzo di fiori," I answer, my mind racing.
"Meraviglioso, è per la tua ragazza, signore?"
"No," I correct her, my voice softening. "Il mio fidanzato." The word feels strange on my tongue, but there's a truth to it that I can't deny. She's more than just a girlfriend, more than just a passing fling. She's my future, and I'll be damned if I let anything take her away from me.
"Hai in mente qualche tipo?" she asks, oblivious to the turmoil I'm hiding behind a calm facade.
"Do you want to make it yourself?" Her question catches me off guard. I'm not the type to arrange flowers, but a thought strikes me—would she like it more if I did?
"Fine," I sigh, following her to the back of the florist. The shop is small, cozy, filled with the scent of nature and life. I need that right now.
"Pick the flowers you like and separate them," she instructs, handing me a pair of shears. I choose big, light pink roses—soft, delicate, but with thorns that can protect them if needed. Just like her.
"Now remove any leaves and thorns," she says. I strip the stems carefully, thinking about how fragile she's become, how she's hiding her pain behind that stubborn smile.
"Now you need to add filler flowers," she continues, pulling out branches of lavender. I arrange them with the roses, the colors blending in a way that feels right—calm, peaceful, but with an underlying strength.
