Chapter 2 - The AftermathThe rest of my shift passed in a blur of surreal panic and lingering adrenaline. Every time a customer waved a hand or called my name, my nerves jumped. Marco kept shooting me poisonous glares from behind the bar, clearly furious that I had somehow caught the attention of the most dangerous man in the city without getting fired—or worse.
When midnight finally struck and I locked the back door of Bellarosa behind me, the cold night air hit my face like a splash of ice water. I pulled my thin wool coat tightly around myself and began the four-block walk toward the subway station.
The streets of Brooklyn at night were never entirely safe, but tonight, every shadow seemed to stretch a little further. I kept checking over my shoulder, half-expecting a black town car to pull up beside me.
You just earned my respect, Antonio’s voice echoed in my head.
Crazy, I muttered to myself, unlocking the heavy iron gate of my apartment building. I need to forget him. He’s mafia royalty. I’m a broke college dropout slinging pasta. Our worlds don’t intersect unless something catastrophic happens.
Little did I know, the intersection had already occurred.
CHAPTER 2 (Cont.) / A Knock on the DoorThe next morning, sleep offered no refuge. I tossed and turned on my lumpy mattress, plagued by dreams of dark suits, trembling silver hands, and piercing black eyes. By 8:00 AM, I dragged myself out of bed to prepare for my Saturday morning job at the local neighborhood bakery—a much quieter gig where the biggest hazard was flour dust on my apron.
Around 10:30 AM, the bell above the bakery door chimed.
I was wiping down the pastry display case when a deep, commanding voice spoke near the counter.
“I am looking for Sophie.”
My hands froze on the damp cloth. I slowly looked up.
Standing in the middle of the small, cozy bakery were two massive men in dark suits—the exact same bodyguards who had flanked Antonio Russo at Bellarosa. The other customers in the bakery instantly stepped back, sensing the danger radiating from the two strangers.
The taller bodyguard, a man with a broken nose and piercing gray eyes named Victor, stepped forward. He didn't smile. He reached into his suit jacket, and my heart leapt into my throat.
Is this where it ends? I thought, bracing myself.
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Instead of a weapon, Victor pulled out a heavy, thick white envelope sealed with a custom gold wax stamp bearing a bold letter R.
“Mr. Russo requests your presence,” Victor said flatly. “This is not a request you want to refuse.”
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