Almost.
Part 2
At exactly 6:07 p.m., the bell above the café door rang.
I looked up from wiping the counter and nearly dropped the mug in my hand.
Alessandro Russo stood in the doorway.
The entire café seemed to shrink around him. His black coat fit perfectly across his broad shoulders, his expression unreadable, his presence so controlled that even the customers lowered their voices without knowing why.
Behind him stood Marco, silent and watchful.
And beside him, holding a small paper bag with both hands, was Luca.
The boy’s face brightened the second he saw me.
“Sophia!”
He ran across the café before anyone could stop him and wrapped his arms around my waist. I froze, then gently hugged him back.
“You found me,” he said in Italian, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Alessandro approached slowly.
“I told you not to bother her,” he said to his son.
Luca looked up at him. “She is not bothered.”
Rachel, standing behind the espresso machine, mouthed,
Who is that?
I ignored her.
Alessandro placed a white box on the counter. Inside was an elegant cake from a bakery so expensive I had only ever seen it through the window.
“A thank-you,” he said.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I know.”
“Then why bring it?”
His eyes held mine. “Because my son insisted.”
Luca lifted the paper bag. “And I brought cookies. For you.”
Something in my chest softened dangerously.
I crouched in front of him. “That was very kind.”
Then Luca glanced at his father, hesitated, and whispered in Italian,
“Can you come home with me? Papa needs someone kind.”
The café noise seemed to vanish.
Alessandro went perfectly still.
His face did not change much, but his eyes did. Something sharp passed through them first. Then something wounded. Then something darker, buried so deep I almost missed it.
“Luca,” he said quietly.
But the child continued, voice trembling. “Everybody is scared of Papa.”
I stood slowly.
The sentence hung between us like broken glass.
Alessandro looked at me as if waiting for judgment. Maybe he expected fear. Maybe pity. Maybe disgust.
Instead, I said, “Maybe he is not afraid of you. Maybe he is lonely.”
Luca pressed closer to my side.
For the first time, Alessandro Russo looked as if someone had struck him.
Marco’s expression hardened, but Alessandro raised one hand slightly, stopping him without looking away from me.
“You speak too freely,” Alessandro said.
“Only when children tell the truth.”
His jaw tightened.
Rachel cleared her throat behind me. “Sophia, do you need me to call someone?”
Alessandro’s eyes flicked toward her, and she immediately regretted speaking.
I stepped between them.
“No,” I said. “He was just leaving.”
Silence.
A dangerous man does not like being dismissed in public. A man like Alessandro Russo, even less.
Yet after a long moment, he lowered his gaze to Luca.
“Say good night.”
Luca’s small fingers gripped my apron. “Will I see you again?”
I should have said no.
I should have stepped back, smiled politely, and let rich, dangerous people return to whatever world they came from.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Maybe.”
Alessandro heard it too.
His eyes sharpened.
That night, I walked home looking over my shoulder three times.
The next morning, the café owner called me into his office before my shift started. His hands trembled as he pushed an envelope across the desk.
“Sophia,” he said, not meeting my eyes, “I’m sorry.”
Inside was two weeks’ pay.
I stared at him. “You’re firing me?”
He swallowed. “The building is being sold. New management. Everything is changing.”
“That’s not true.”
His silence answered for him.
My stomach turned cold.
“Who bought it?”
He looked physically ill.
“Sophia, please don’t ask me that.”
I left the café with my apron in my bag and humiliation burning behind my eyes. Outside, a black car waited at the curb.