The streets reeked of fried grease and gasoline, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes no matter how far you walked. Even the night air didn't wash it away, it settled on your skin, stubborn as smoke. I balanced the cardboard box on my hip, weaving through bodies like I had done a hundred times before. Kids darted barefoot across cracked pavement, chasing each other through the chaos. A radio blasted from a balcony overhead, spilling a love song out of tune with the grit below. Same circus. Different day.
My sneakers crunched against broken glass as I turned into the alley for the drop. The shadows stretched long, swallowing the corners, and for a second, my gut told me I shouldn't be here. Big mistake.
Three men were waiting.
They leaned against the dented hood of a rusted car, black shirts stretched over heavy shoulders, tattoos climbing their arms. Their belts sagged with the unmistakable bulge of guns they didn't bother to hide. Their clothes were too crisp for this part of town, their shoes too polished, their eyes too sharp. They weren't locals. Mafia boys. The kind of men people crossed the street to avoid.
Not me.
I set the box down on the hood with more attitude than sense. "Delivery."
The tallest one pushed off the car, his expression sour as if just looking at me ruined his day. "This isn't what we asked for."
I arched a brow. "Then maybe try ordering properly."
A vein pulsed in his neck. His jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth, girl."
"Or what?" I tilted my head. "You'll scowl me to death?" My words bounced off the brick walls, sharp and reckless. From the corner of my eye, I caught two kids slowing at the alley's mouth, whispering behind dirty hands as they watched.
The second guy stepped forward, his gold chain catching the weak light. "Our boss doesn't like mistakes."
"Then tell your boss to pick up his own coffee," I shot back, folding my arms.
That's when I saw it.
A sleek black car glided silently into the alley, low and glossy, its engine a quiet purr that somehow roared louder than the street outside. It didn't belong here, not among cracked pavement and peeling paint. The kind of car that screamed money, power, danger.
The back window rolled down an inch. Smoke curled out, thick and lazy, wrapping the air in tension. Even the men froze, their arrogance wilting in its wake.
The door opened.
And he stepped out.
Tall. Sharp suit, black on black. Dark hair slicked back like every strand had been warned into obedience. His face was cut from stone, clean lines, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth that hadn't smiled in years. But it was his eyes that nailed me where I stood: cold, deliberate, the kind that stripped you bare in silence. He didn't need to speak. I already knew this was the boss.
He closed the door with a quiet click, adjusting his cufflinks with a precision that said the whole alley, the whole block, maybe the whole city, already belonged to him. When his gaze locked on me, it wasn't a glance. It was a slow, deliberate claim, as if he was deciding whether to crush me under his heel or let me crawl away.
"What's the problem here?" His voice was low, smooth, and terrifying in its calmness.
"Boss," the tall one said quickly, pointing at me like I was a stray dog, "she brought the wrong package. Got smart with us."
I tilted my head, refusing to shrink. "Your boys don't know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino. Not my fault."
For a heartbeat, the alley froze. Then I swore I saw it. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, not quite mockery. Just something dangerous flickering to life.
He stepped closer, polished shoes untouched by dirt. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"
"Some guy with too much gel in his hair?"
The air cracked like glass under pressure. His men stiffened, as if I'd spat on their god. His eyes narrowed, slicing into me. The alley shrank, every shadow pulling tighter.
"I could end you for less," he said. His voice was a blade, smooth and sharp.
My pulse thundered, but I forced my chin higher. "Go ahead. Then who'll bring your coffee tomorrow?"
Silence. Then it was just us, his cold control against my reckless fire, locked in a duel neither of us wanted to break.
He leaned in, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath at my ear. "You've got guts. Or maybe you're just stupid."
"Maybe both," I whispered, though my hands trembled against my sides.
His jaw flexed once before he straightened, dismissing me with a flick of his hand. "Let her go."
"But boss…." one of them started.
"Now." The word cut clean, final.
Reluctantly, they stepped back, their eyes burning holes into me.
I shoved the box at the nearest one, squared my shoulders, and walked out of the alley. Not fast. Not running. Just steady steps, each one heavier than the last.
Halfway down the block, I looked back.
He was still watching. Still unreadable. Still terrifying. Like he'd just discovered a new game and wasn't sure if he wanted to play or break it apart.
And as I slipped into the crowd, his voice carried after me, low and dangerous, a promise etched into the night:
"You'll regret ever stepping into my world."
I shoved through the café door, the cardboard delivery slip still crumpled in my fist. The familiar bell jingled above me, that soft chime I usually loved, but tonight it felt too loud, too sharp. The air inside was warm with the scent of burnt espresso and powdered sugar, a comfort I'd clung to since I was fifteen.
Usually, that mix of sugar and bitterness felt like home. Tonight, it was suffocating.
Don Carlo looked up from behind the counter. His apron was stained, his thick brows pulled low over eyes that had seen too much of this city. "Aria," he grumbled, his voice thick with his Italian roots, "you're late."
I dropped the empty box onto the counter harder than I meant to. "Your mafia customers nearly strangled me over a coffee mix-up. And then their boss, the guy in the suit, stepping out of the shiny black car decided to join the fun." Maybe next time you run their orders yourself."
The old man's face blanched. The towel in his hands slipped onto the counter. He didn't scold me. He didn't even frown. He just went still, like I'd whispered a curse into the room.
"Which customers?" he asked, low.
"The ones in the alley," I said, tugging off my cap. My hair stuck damp to my forehead. "Black shirts. Gold chains. The kind of guys who think scowling is a personality trait."
Carlo muttered something under his breath in Italian, words I didn't need to translate to understand were curses. He rubbed a hand over his bald head, suddenly older than he'd been five minutes ago.
"You don't talk back to men like that, ragazza," he said, almost whispering. "Not if you want to keep breathing."
Heat flared in my chest, a shaky shield against the tremor still working its way through my veins. "What was I supposed to do? Bow down? Kiss their rings? They disrespected me."
"You think pride will protect you?" His eyes sharpened, slicing through my bravado. "That man, the one who stepped out of the car, he is not someone you cross. Damian DeLuca is…."
"I don't care what he is." The lie was out before I could stop it. "He doesn't scare me."
But my hands betrayed me, fingers trembling as I smoothed the crumpled slip flat on the counter. The truth was obvious, but I couldn't let Carlo see it. Couldn't let anyone see it.
Carlo leaned across the counter, his voice gravel low. "Listen to me, bambina. Men like him don't forget faces. Don't give him a reason to remember yours."
I forced a laugh, a brittle thing that didn't reach my eyes. "Relax. He's got bigger problems than a broke delivery girl. By tomorrow, he won't even remember me."
But even as I said it, the image of his eyes pinned me in place. Cold, calculating, endless. That wasn't a man who forgot. That was a man who collected.
Carlo didn't argue. He just looked at me like he knew I was already caught in something too big for either of us to fix.
The dinner rush thinned as the night crept on, and the café emptied one table at a time. I scrubbed at crumbs with more force than necessary, humming off-key to drown the silence. The neon sign outside buzzed, its glow seeping through the glass like a warning.
My shift was nearly done. All I wanted was to crawl into bed, bury myself in a blanket, and pretend Damian DeLuca's eyes hadn't burned their way into my memory.
I stacked the last chair, wiped the last counter, and told myself the world would look smaller in the morning. Safer.
But the knot in my chest refused to loosen.
The café had gone quiet. The neon outside buzzed faintly, the street beyond painted in blue shadows. I wrung the rag in my hands, counting the seconds until I could clock out and disappear into the night.
The bell over the door chimed.
I froze.
Two men stepped inside, their presence swallowing the room whole. Black shirts stretched across broad shoulders, heavy chains glinting under the weak lights. I knew their faces. I knew their swagger. The same men from the alley.
Mafia boys.
My stomach dropped, but I held onto the rag like it was a weapon.
Don Carlo looked up from the counter. The blood drained from his face. "We're closed," he said quickly, his voice tight, almost pleading.
The taller one smiled, slow and sharp. "Not for us."
They didn't sit. They didn't order. They just stood there, letting their silence fill the air until it pressed against my ribs.
I cleared my throat, though it came out thin. "If you're here about your coffee…."
The second man cut me off. His voice was smooth, cold. "Our boss doesn't like being disrespected."
My chest squeezed, but I forced myself to scoff. "Then maybe he should grow thicker skin. It was just coffee."
The tall one took a step closer, his shadow stretching long across the floor. "It wasn't just coffee. It was you. Running your mouth. Acting like you don't know who owns these streets."
My pulse hammered in my throat. "Maybe I don't care who owns them."
His smile widened, cruel. "Then you're dumber than you look."
Carlo came from behind the counter, his hands raised like surrender might save me. "She's just a girl. She didn't mean anything. I'll handle her."
The man raised a hand, silencing him without a word. His gaze never left me.
"Our boss sent a message."
My throat tightened. I already knew what he meant, but I forced my chin up anyway. "What message?"
He leaned close enough that the smoke clinging to his clothes choked my breath. His whisper slid down my spine like ice.
"The same one you heard in the alley. You'll regret stepping into his world."
The words hit harder the second time, sharper now that I couldn't pretend it was just a threat tossed into the night.
And then they turned and left. Just like that. The bell jingled above them, the café door swinging wide, letting the cold night air slice through the room.
I didn't move. Couldn't.
The rag slipped from my fingers, limp against the tile.
Carlo stared at me, his face pale as chalk, like he'd seen this ending before and already knew how it played out.
But me? I only knew one thing
Damian DeLuca remembered me.
And whatever world he ruled, I had just stepped straight into it.