The café was steeped in warmth—espresso steamed from ceramic cups, and the air carried the caramel hush of burnt sugar. Conversations hummed, spoons clinked, and the sweetness settled like a lullaby. Then the door flew open. Silence fell. A musky wave of sandalwood and spice surged in, conquering the room. At the door stood two men in black suits. The barista's grey moustache didn't twitch.
Christian Romano, heir to the BlackJack Mafia which ruled Corleone's east side, took off the black gloves he wore and placed them in the pocket of his jacket. He stood tall at six foot five with broad shoulders. His black curly hair fell to the back of his neck, and his soft brown eyes surveyed the café. Many dared not meet his eyes, soft as dusk, yet sharp enough to unearth secrets.
With a glance toward the barista, Christian caught the silent refusal. He cursed under his breath, making his way to the corner table along with his best friend, Dante. Their footsteps tapped out a rhythm the café knew too well. Whispers bloomed like steam, curling toward the ceiling. Across the café, two young women watched Christian. He looked in their direction, and the women looked away. Their faces flushed, the color blooming like crushed pimento.
"He's late," said Christian, his voice low and even-like a lullaby spoken in a shadow. He and Dante sat.
Dante scoffed. "We're early," he said. "Will you relax? You've got the heir-to-the-throne twitch again. Relax, before you turn espresso into poison."
Christian snickered as he tilted his head, his eyes looking out the window. A lemon tree stood outside, shielding the sunrays. A man on a red scooter drove past the café on the narrow cobbled street. The sound of a church bell rang from a distance.
A waitress came to serve them espresso and lemon cupcakes. Christian sees a black card underneath the plate. Dante sees it too. He drank his coffee. Christian took the card. In the BlackJack mafia, the card has always been a way of communication and a proof of loyalty. The card was black as a secret, its skull grinning where a king should reign. The letter J and the spade stood out in gold. Christian turned the card and read the scribbled handwriting. He exhaled sharply, the sound low and unimpressed.
"He's a no-show," said Christian, placing the card in the pocket of his jacket. "Let's go."
"At least have your cupcake. Mamma mia! Are you going to ignore your favorite cupcake?"
Christian took his cupcake and bit into it, its zesty lemon taste melting in his mouth. The café door flew open, the bell dinging. A sweet smell of strawberries made its way inside the café. Everyone's eyes fly to the door.
She wore a white cotton dress dotted with red blooms, soft as breath. Her hair spilled across her shoulders—dark, fluid, deliberate. Light caught her eyes: green, unblinking, like glass warmed by sun. Her cheekbones curved gently, the way petals fold inward at dusk.
Christian's gaze locked onto her. His breath stilled, the lemon cupcake on his tongue forgotten. Something in her presence—quiet, unyielding—pressed against the part of him which ruled, and the part which longed.
"Oddio!" (Oh my God) came the booming voice of the barista. "Rosetta, is it you?"
The woman turned toward him, cheeks blooming pink. "Signore Paleto!" Her voice spilled like honey, warm and golden.
Christian didn't look away. Dante waved a hand across his face.
"Ehi, Christian!" (Hey, Christian!) said Dante. "You act like you've never seen a woman before."
Christian realizes he hadn't swallowed his cupcake. He does so and takes a sip of coffee. Dante watches him, a devious smile on his face.
"Are you going to talk to her?" Dante whispered.
Christian almost choked on his coffee. He put the cup back down as he coughed. "You're such an ass."
"Are you? Despite your dangerous nature, you attract the ladies like bees to honey."
"Is she's attracted to me?"
"You'll never know until you talk to." Dante nudged with his head, pointing towards Rosetta.
"I don't have time for this." Christian stood. "Let's go."
"You're no fun," Dante muttered as he followed suit. "You keep pushing people away, and one day you'll find no one left to pull you back."
Christian came over to the counter; silence fell as he walked past the tables with Dante behind him. He stood next to Rosetta. The sweet smell of strawberries enticed him. He focused his eyes on the barista.
"Keep me updated on any changes," said Christian. The barista gave a nod. Christian drew out some paper bills, placing them close to Rosetta's cup. Rosetta remained frozen like a statue, trying not to turn to the handsome stranger beside her.
Christian turned around and took his leave. Dante, who stood at the door, opened it for him. Christian walked out, and Dante smirked, closing the door behind him.
Rosetta relaxed as the door closed, yet her heart continued to beat as she remembered how she met the stranger's eyes before he came to the counter. The smell of sandalwood lingered in the place where he stood.
The barista collects the money on the counter. Rosetta sees a black card next to her cup.
"Did the man intend to give this to you?" Rosetta asked.
"No," the barista answered. His moustache moving upwards. "I believe it's yours."
Rosetta froze as she looked at the skull faces on the card. She picked it up and turned to the white side of the card. There, written in black ink, is a name and phone number. The last sentence beneath heated her cheeks: Call me283Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKTTKHDxMzl
and then Add to home screen.