The aroma of roasted coffee beans clung to the air like a second skin, weaving through the chipped walls and worn, out booths of Café Esperanza. To the outside world it was nothing special, just another tired shop on a fading street but to Isabella Cruz, it was both a lifeline and a prison.
The morning rush had slowed. The construction workers who came in for their strong, bitter coffee were gone, and the mothers with their strollers had already scattered back to their lives. A single student lingered in the corner booth, bent over a pile of notes, scribbling furiously as if the fate of the world depended on midterms. The hum of the ceiling fan filled the quiet like background music, steady and unremarkable.
Isabella wiped down the espresso machine, her apron dusted with flour from the muffins she had baked at dawn. Her dark hair was knotted into a bun that had already loosened, rebellious strands slipping against her cheeks. She didn't bother fixing it. At twenty-two, exhaustion had become her second nature.
"Bella," Marta's voice called from the back. Her best friend, loud, brash, and completely unapologetic, stepped into the café with a half empty can of soda in hand. "Your mom called again. You really need to get her one of those phones with big buttons. She sounds worse every time I answer."
Isabella's hand stilled on the counter. "I'll stop by the pharmacy on the way home. She worries too much. You know how she is."
Marta popped her gum, arching a brow. "Mm-hm. And you worry too little. Balance it out and maybe both of you survive to old age."
"Funny." Isabella forced a small smile, but guilt gnawed at her stomach. Her mother's illness had become a clock ticking in the background of her life, every second reminding her of what she hadn't done, what she couldn't afford, what she was always late to fix.
The bell over the door chimed.
Instinctively, Isabella glanced up.
A man stepped inside.
The world seemed to pause. The student in the corner stopped writing, Marta stopped mid, chew, and even the ceiling fan's lazy hum felt quieter.
He was tall, dressed in a black tailored suit that fit too perfectly to be ordinary. His dark hair was slicked back, revealing sharp, angular features. His presence filled the café in an instant, commanding, magnetic, dangerous.
He wasn't handsome in the conventional sense. He was something else. Something carved from authority and shadow.
Isabella's pulse quickened.
She lowered her gaze, pretending to busy herself with the sugar packets, but the pull was undeniable. She felt his attention long before she dared to meet his eyes again.
When she did, her breath caught.
Steel gray eyes locked onto her, unflinching, as though he had been searching for her all along.
He walked forward. Each step was deliberate, calculated, and by the time he reached the counter, Isabella could barely steady her hands.
"One espresso," he said, his voice deep, smooth, touched by an accent that curled around the edges of his words like velvet. Italian, she thought or something close.
"Of… of course." Her own voice sounded foreign to her ears.
She turned quickly, grateful for the excuse to hide her trembling fingers. The hiss of the machine filled the silence, but she knew his eyes hadn't left her. Every movement felt magnified under his scrutiny: the tilt of her wrist, the way she reached for the cup, even the faint hitch in her breath.
When she slid the espresso toward him, their fingers didn't touch, but she swore the distance between them carried heat.
He didn't pick it up immediately. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out something unexpected.
A rose.
A single, deep red rose, its petals so vibrant they looked unreal against the sterile countertop.
He placed it beside the cup.
Her heart skipped.
Confused, she opened her mouth, but words abandoned her. His gaze lingered a second longer, unreadable, then the corner of his mouth curved, not a smile, not really. More like a warning. A promise.
And then, just like that, he turned and walked out.
The bell chimed. The café exhaled.
Marta stormed forward immediately. "Who the hell was that? He looked like he walked straight out of one of those mafia movies."
Isabella stared at the rose, her chest tightening. Her voice was faint when she answered. "I… I don't know."
But deep down, something told her this wasn't a chance encounter.
The rose wasn't a gift.
It was the beginning of something she wasn't ready for.
And somewhere, deep in the city's shadows, a man with gray eyes and blood on his hands had just decided Isabella Cruz belonged to him.