My Hidden Marriage To A Mafia Lord

"Am I late?..."

The question flew frantically out of my mouth between desperate, ragged gasps as I shoved open the heavy glass door of the café. I opened the doors too fast and I nearly collided headfirst with an elderly gentleman who was just trying to make his exit. 

"Sorry! Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" I called out over my shoulder, offering a quick, breathless apology to the startled customer I had nearly leveled with the door. I didn't even have the breath to check if he was alright before I was scrambling toward the employee counter, my chest heaving violently under my thin white cotton blouse. I clutched my canvas bag to my side like a shield, my lungs burning as if I had been swallowing hot coals. "I'm here! Please, Luca, just tell me I'm not late. Please."

Luca looked up from the steaming espresso machine, a thick white rag draped over his broad shoulder as he wiped down the metallic milk-frothing wands. He looked at the giant circular clock ticking away on the exposed brick wall behind him, then slowly turned his gaze back to my disheveled appearance.

"You've got exactly thirty seconds to spare," Luca replied, his deep voice carrying easily over the hiss of the machinery.

A massive wave of relief flooded through me, so intense and sudden that it made my weak knees tremble beneath my skirt. I collapsed against the edge of the smooth wooden counter, letting my head rest against the cool surface for a fleeting second. "Oh, thank God. Thank the heavens."

Luca folded his arms across his chest, leaning his hip against the counter as he watched me struggle for air. He tried his absolute best to maintain a stern, managerial expression, but he failed miserably to hide the amused, paternal smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You ran all the way from the transit junction again, didn't you, Valentina?"

"I wasn't about to lose half my day's pay for being five minutes late," I panted. My voice was raspy, the sharp air of the city still scraping the back of my throat. 

"You know, you could've just taken a taxi for once in your life," he said, shaking his head with a sigh that was laced with genuine worry. "You're going to give yourself a heart attack before you even hit twenty-five if you keep sprinting through the downtown traffic like a maniac."

I let out a breathless laugh, straightening my spine even though every muscle in my legs was screaming in protest. "With what money, Luca?"

That honest admission earned a few low chuckles from the regular customers seated at the stools closest to the service counter. They were used to my morning theatrics by now. I bent over completely, resting my hands firmly on my knees while trying to force my erratic breathing into something more of a normal rhythm. The brutal ten-block sprint from the subway station had left my lungs feeling like they were on absolute fire, each breath drawing in the scent of roasted coffee beans, sweet pastries and my own exhaustion.

The  truth was... I actually did have enough money in my bag for a taxi ride. I had the crisp bills folded neatly into the hidden zipper compartment of my wallet but I just couldn't bring myself to spend it on something as fleeting as personal comfort. Every single dollar I saved by punishing my feet against the hard city pavement meant one more dose of my mother's essential heart medication. It meant one more expensive hospital bill paid on time, one less threatening letter from the clinic's billing department and one less sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling wondering how on earth I'd keep her alive for another month.

So, I ran. I ran every single morning, rain or shine, through pouring downpours and blistering summer heat waves. I ran because walking was free, running was faster and being late was a luxury that a girl with a dying mother simply couldn't afford.

I finally straightened up completely, forcing a deep breath into my aching lungs. I tucked my canvas bag underneath the employee counter and began frantically smoothing out the deep, chaotic wrinkles that had formed in my white blouse during the frantic dash. I reached for my faded green apron hanging from the hook by the kitchen door and tied it tightly around my waist, pulling the strings taut until the knot was secure.

"You are completely, utterly impossible," Mia muttered with an affectionate roll of her eyes as she bumped her hip against mine. She slid a fresh order pad and a blue ballpoint pen across the counter toward me.

"Hey, don't start with me today, Mia. I've been called a lot worse than impossible ," I teased, flashing her a quick, tired grin as I slipped the pad into my apron pocket.

As I moved past the prep station to grab a clean tray, I caught a fleeting glimpse of my reflection in the polished chrome of the espresso machine. I froze for a split second, dismayed by the absolute disaster staring back at me. My dark chestnut hair tumbled in loose, chaotic waves around my shoulders, entirely refusing to stay pinned inside the cheap plastic claw clip I'd rushed to shove into it while running down the subway stairs. A few damp strands clung stubbornly to my temples. My emerald green eyes stood out sharply, against my warm skin. Despite the deep, heavy exhaustion hiding just beneath my eyelids, Mama always insisted I looked like an Aphrodite goddess whenever I left our cramped apartment.

I never believed her, of course. It was just the sweet, blind love of a mother trying to make her daughter feel beautiful in a world that was constantly grinding her down. Goddesses didn't walk around the city in cracked, worn-out flats that let the rain seep through the soles. They didn't routinely skip breakfast just to save a few pennies for the pharmacy counter.

"Stop admiring your gorgeous self in the machinery and get to work," Mia teased, playfully nudging my shoulder with her elbow as she passed by carrying a basket of freshly baked croissants.

"I wasn't admiring myself, trust me," I laughed, tucking a stray lock of chestnut hair behind my ear. "I was checking to see if I still looked entirely homeless"

"You don't," she laughed, her voice disappearing into the back room.

Luca suddenly clapped his hands together  "Enough gossiping, ladies. The lunch rush is officially hitting us and table seven has been waiting for their menus for five minutes now. Let's move!"

"On it, boss," I said, my professional customer-service voice instantly clicking into place. I balanced two steaming, frothy cappuccinos on my round plastic tray, lifted it high on my fingertips and stepped out from behind the counter into the bustling dining area.

Within minutes, the brutal afternoon rush swallowed the café whole. Orders came flying in faster than our small kitchen could possibly make them. The espresso machine hissed and groaned like a living monster, blasting plumes of white steam into the air as Luca worked double-time to keep up with the caffeine demands of stressed-out corporate workers. Plates clattered loudly against the wooden tables, silverware jingled in the bus tubs and the ambient noise of a dozens of simultaneous conversations filled the room.

An entitled man in an expensive suit loudly complained to me that his macchiato wasn't hot enough, demanding I take it back, while a group of teenagers slipped out the front door without paying their pastry bill entirely while my back was turned. It was absolute, unadulterated chaos, but as I flew from table to table, wiping down surfaces and writing down adjustments, I realized it was the specific kind of chaos that I actually liked.  Chaos was loud and fast; it didn't leave any quiet room for overthinking, it didn't leave any space for terrifying financial calculations and it certainly didn't leave room for the painful, haunting memories of a life we had left behind.

The clock on the wall now read just past two o'clock and the heavy crowd was finally beginning to thin out into a manageable trickle. I felt a deep ache blooming in my lower back. I had just set a fresh slice of homemade strawberry cheesecake down in front of a woman at table four.

Right above the service counter, the old television mounted to the brick wall suddenly cut out. The low jazz music that usually pumped through the café’s speakers died instantly, replaced by a sharp, jarring electronic tone that made a few people turn their heads.

"...we interrupt our regular programming to bring you this breaking news live from the downtown police plaza..." the news anchor's voice droned, sounding detached and entirely too clinical for whatever was about to follow.

Nobody in the crowded café really cared. Most of the patrons were buried in their laptops or staring blankly at their phones, completely focused on their own lives. I casually pulled out my notepad, walking toward the end of the counter to scribble down a new order for a turkey club sandwich, my mind completely focused on finishing my shift so I could run to the pharmacy before it closed.

"...authorities have announced that the human remains recovered near the industrial harbor earlier this week have now been officially identified by forensic teams using dental records..."

I moved down the length of the counter, my blue pen clicking rhythmically against the paper as I tabulated a bill for table three. I was entirely on autopilot.

"...the deceased has been officially confirmed as Matteo De Luca..."

The pen stopped instantly, freezing mid-stroke against the paper.

The tip of the ballpoint dug deep into the notepad, tearing a small, jagged hole through the white sheet. The air in my lungs turned to pure ice, freezing solid in my chest.

"No," I whispered to myself, the word barely a puff of air slipping past my lips. A sudden, violent chill gripped my upper body, making my hands shake so hard the notepad rattled. My mind scrambled, trying desperately to build a wall against the terror knocking at the door. "There are thousands of Matteo De Lucas out there. It’s a common name," I muttered frantically under my breath. I stood completely paralyzed, my eyes locked onto the floorboards as I eagerly, desperately waited for the television anchor to say something else, anything else, to prove me right, my heart pounding so violently against my ribs that it felt like it was going to burst through my skin but the anchor didn't stop. His voice seemed to amplify, piercing through the chatter in the cafe.

"...the notorious figure who completely disappeared eight long years ago after allegedly stealing sensitive financial records linked directly to organized crime syndicates in the eastern district..."

The world around me vanished. The heavy, loaded serving tray I was holding slipped clean from my entirely numb hands.

The deafening, catastrophic crash echoed violently through the quieted café as the heavy porcelain cups and glass water pitchers shattered into a thousand jagged pieces against the hard tile floor. A loud, collective gasp erupted from the nearby tables. The hot, dark liquid splattered everywhere, sending a wave of burning coffee soaking right through my canvas flats, scalding the skin of my feet but I couldn't feel a single thing. My mouth went completely dry, tasting like ash and the entire room began to tilt as if the building were sliding into the ocean.

"No," I breathed, my voice cracking into a broken, hollow sound. I stared blankly ahead as tears instantly blurred my vision into a smear of flashing lights.  My father wasn't dead. He couldn't be. Not after eight long years of looking out the window,not after all the promises he whispered into my hair before he vanished into the dark and absolutely not like this.