I came to this shithole café to catch D’Angelo’s men crossing into my territory.
What I didn’t expect was the waitress.
She’s too soft for this place. Too unsteady. Like no one taught her how to survive.
And yet, I can’t stop watching her.
My coffee’s gone cold. I’ve been sitting here too long, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her. Something about her movements—efficient but somehow still awkward and clumsy—keeps pulling my attention from the job at hand. She’s clearly not meant to work in this place, struggling to juggle plates, unlike the others who manage crockery as if it were an extension of their arm.
This isn’t like me. At thirty-eight, I’ve seen enough beautiful women to last several lifetimes. So why the fuck am I fixated on this one?
She moves between tables with a kind of hesitant grace, carrying plates stacked too high, teetering slightly when she turns corners. Twice now, she’s nearly collided with another server. There’s something genuine about her clumsiness that I find… refreshing. The women I know calculate every step, every word, every smile. Nothing authentic about them.
I take a sip of the bitter, cold coffee. The leather of my jacket creaks as I shift, checking my watch, and I take it off. D’Angelo’s men should have been here by now. Word on the street is they’re extending their loan shark operation into this neighborhood. My neighborhood. My men have been keeping tabs. They’re using this café and the alleys round back as a meeting hotspot, without any fear in their bodies. Who the fuck do they think they are?
People are already frightened. A family-owned bakery three blocks down shuttered last week after the owner’s son had his fingers broken. Message received—pay up or suffer. The kid didn’t know he wasn’t borrowing from us. D’Angelo’s men are feigning identities, and I’m going to put a stop to it.
I’ve built my empire on different principles. When people fear you too much, they become unpredictable and desperate. Fear works better as a spice, not the main ingredient.
Besides, I’m the only king around here. If D’Angelo thinks he can expand his operations into my territory, he’s gravely mistaken.
The bell above the door jingles. I tense, expecting to see one of D’Angelo’s thugs, but it’s just an elderly couple shuffling in. The waitress—her nametag reads “Chiara”—practically skips over to them, her smile widening.
“Good afternoon! How can I help you today?” Her voice carries across the café, light and warm.
I watch as she guides them to a corner table, pulling out the chair for the old woman with genuine care. Chiara. The name fits her—clear, bright. She stays at their table, talking, laughing at something the old man says, touching his shoulder lightly. Five minutes pass before she takes their order, and not once does she check the time or show impatience.
She sees people. Really sees them.
I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me that way—like I was a person, not a threat or an opportunity. In my world, you’re either predator or prey. Nothing in between.
I return my attention to the street outside, scanning for faces I recognize. That’s when I spot him—Luca Belli, one of D’Angelo’s collectors. He’s standing across the street, half-hidden in a doorway, but I know that rat-like face. His eyes are fixed on the café window, and for a second, I think he’s spotted me. But his gaze isn’t tracking my movements. He’s watching something else.
Someone else.
I follow his line of sight directly to Chiara.
Fuck.
The coincidence is too perfect. I’m here hunting D’Angelo’s men, and they’re hunting… her? The timing makes my skin crawl. I don’t believe in coincidences. Not in my line of work.
I catch Belli checking his watch, then speaking into a phone. A minute later, he slinks toward the café entrance. The bell jingles, and he changes colors. I watch as he stumbles into a seat.
Is he acting… drunk?
I observe him carefully over the rim of my coffee cup. He’s not here for the food. His eyes never leave Chiara. There’s something predatory in his gaze that makes my hand instinctively drift toward the gun holstered beneath my jacket.
This isn’t my concern. I’m here to watch, to plan—not to wade into someone else’s mess.
But then again… why the hell do I care if she’s scared? Why is my pulse kicking up, watching his eyes track her ass like a fucking predator?
When Chiara approaches his table, I notice the slight stiffening of her shoulders. Her smile becomes fixed, professional. She knows him. Or at least, she knows what men like him represent. Trouble.
He says something, and I watch in horror as he grabs her hand.
She stiffens the moment he touches her. The mask stays on, but her eyes betray her. Fear, swallowed. Survival mode.
No one moves. Cowards, all of them.
By the time I’m behind him, Belli’s too deep in his performance to notice the danger at his back. But she sees me. Her eyes find mine—wide, desperate—and she doesn’t say a word.
She doesn’t have to.
“You have three seconds to decide if that hand’s worth keeping.”
He freezes. Then slowly turns. When he sees me, the color drains from his face like I flipped a switch. His hand drops from her like it’s been burned.
She pulls away. Good girl.
“Leave,” I tell her without looking. My focus is on Belli, who’s deciding whether to piss himself or lie.
He chooses wrong.
“This isn’t what it looks like—”
I take his wrist and twist. One pop, one crunch. That’s all it takes.
He falls back into his seat, whimpering like a kicked dog.
I lean closer, my lips near his ear.
“D’Angelo doesn’t make claims in my city,” I tell him. “And the girl? Next time you reach for her, I’ll bury you in a box so small, your bones will have to fold.”
He nods like his life depends on it. Because it does.
I release him and straighten my cuffs, watching Belli rush out of the café. I put on my coat and am about to turn to leave when I feel a prickle of awareness go down my spine.
I look back, and there, behind the glass of the kitchen door, I see a shadow. A woman’s shadow. She’s still watching me. I think back to the smile she gave me earlier today, the one I didn’t return because of how taken aback I was by the fact that someone like her—someone who seemed untouched by anything cruel or messy—had looked at me like I was worth seeing.
And this time around, I return the smile. Or try to again. I swear I see the door shake, as though someone’s leaning against it.
Then I turn and head out without looking back. I need to find the rest of D’Angelo’s men, who are undoubtedly nearby.
Outside, the air is crisp, carrying the first hint of evening chill. I scan the street, noting the blue sedan parked at the corner with two men inside—more of D’Angelo’s crew. They haven’t spotted me yet. Their attention is directed toward the café’s side exit—likely waiting for Chiara’s shift to end.
I move through shadow, circling behind them until I reach the narrow alley that runs behind the row of businesses. As expected, I find three men huddled in the darkness, sharing a cigarette. I recognize Matteo, D’Angelo’s head enforcer, giving instructions to the others.
“—grab her as soon as she comes out. No witnesses. Take her straight to the boss.”
I step into view, my shoes scraping deliberately against the pavement. Three heads snap in my direction.
“Gentlemen,” I say, “I believe you’re trespassing.”
Matteo recovers first. “Bianchi. We… we weren’t doing anything.”
“Everything in this neighborhood is my concern, and you being here when you shouldn’t is everything,” I keep my voice calm as I assess the three of them. Matteo is dangerous—ex-military, quick with a blade. The others are standard muscle.
“The girl owes D’Angelo.”
“D’Angelo should never have lent to a woman in my territory,” I correct him. “And now I’m telling you, the debt is void.”
Matteo’s eyes narrow. “You buying her contract?”
“I’m telling you she’s off-limits.”
His hand moves toward his jacket, but I’m faster. The blade I keep in my sleeve slides into my palm, and in one fluid motion, I draw it across the throat of the man standing closest to me. Blood sprays in an arc as he drops, hands clutching futilely at his neck.
The second man lunges. I sidestep, drawing my gun from its holster and firing once. His kneecap explodes in a mess of bone and tissue. His scream echoes in the alley as he collapses.
Matteo freezes, hands raised. Smart enough to know when he’s outmatched.
I press the gun against his temple. “Here’s my message for D’Angelo: The girl is mine now. If he so much as breathes in her direction again, he won’t live to regret it.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Matteo says, but I can see the fear in his eyes. “D’Angelo doesn’t give up what’s his.”
“Neither do I.” I feel the truth of this statement as I say it. Chiara doesn’t know it yet, but she belongs to me now. “And just to be clear—she was never his.”
I crack the butt of the gun against his skull, hard enough to daze but not kill him. I need a messenger, after all.
“Remember what I said.” I step back, watching as he staggers against the wall. “The girl is under my protection now.”
I leave him with his injured companion and the corpse of the third man, knowing D’Angelo will get the message. I make a quick call to my cleanup crew to deal with the body and any evidence. Out here, I run this part of the city—cops know better than to ask questions when blood shows up where it shouldn’t.
Instead of leaving, I circle back to the café, positioning myself across the street where I can watch the entrance. I need to make sure Chiara gets home safely. It’s just business, I tell myself. I’ve staked a claim now—I need to protect my decisions.
But a voice in my head laughs at my words.
I wait nearly half an hour before she emerges, still in her uniform. She looks tired, shoulders slumped as she scans the street like she’s afraid. She doesn’t spot me in the shadows.
I follow her at a distance, staying far enough back that she won’t notice but close enough to intervene if necessary. In the meantime, I drop my right-hand man a text: Follow D’Angelo’s movements. See what his men are up to. Caught them hunting our grounds today.
She walks four blocks to a dingy, run-down apartment building, climbing the stairs to the third floor. I hate this apartment. She shouldn’t be living in this hotspot of crime. When she’s safely inside, I position myself in the doorway of a closed shop across the street, giving me a clear view of her window.
Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Nicolo.
“Boss,” he says when I answer. “We’ve been tracking D’Angelo’s movements like you asked. Something’s happening.”
“Explain.”
“His men have been mobilized—armed. A car left his compound fifteen minutes ago, heading toward Sullivan.”
My eyes snap to Chiara’s window, where lights have just come on.
Sullivan. This street. A cold certainty settles in my gut.
I circle the block, cutting through the shadows behind her building—and then I see it.
A black SUV.
Parked by the rear alley entrance. Tucked just far enough into the dark to go unnoticed by anyone who isn’t looking for it.
Military grade. Tinted windows. Engine off. No one inside.
A silent promise of violence waiting to be delivered.
My warning to D’Angelo must have reached him, and this is his response. He’s showing me that my claim means nothing to him. That he can take what he wants, when he wants it.
Fury rises in me—cold, focused rage. D’Angelo has made a fatal mistake. He’s taken something of mine, and now I’ll show him exactly what that means.
