คู่หมั้นมาเฟีย

Miles pov

Some days feel heavier than others. Today felt like the whole goddamn world was sitting on my chest.

I wiped my hands on my apron and forced a tight smile as another customer walked out, their to-go bag of pastries in hand. The bell above the door chimed, a sound I’d heard a thousand times in this old building. It should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

“Hang in there, Miles,” Mrs. Carter called as she left, her voice soft with pity. “We’re praying for your father.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She wasn’t the first one to say that today. Won’t be the last either.

Dad was in the hospital — again. Another heart attack. Another ride of chest pain and sirens and me holding his hand while begging him not to die on me. He's seventy years old. Seventy. And this building, this run-down old building, is the only thing keeping us together.

The Kaden House. That's what we called it back then — although technically speaking, it was just an old restaurant with peeling paint and creaky floors that we fixed up ourselves. We'd turned it into a tiny café-slash-community kitchen. People came for the cheap grub, the coziness, the gossip. This building was our life. It paid the hospital bill, put a roof over our heads, and fed half the neighborhood when times were tough.

And now… now it felt like everything was slipping through my fingers.

The kitchen was a mess. Flour dusted the countertops. The aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastry lingered in the air. I'd barely slept. Barely breathed since Dad was rushed out of here last night. But we couldn't afford to close down — not even for a day.

I turned as the door opened, and in walked Mr. Harper, one of those kinds of customers you wished to slap on a good day. Today was not a good day.

He strode up to the counter, took a cupcake, and examined it as if it were roadkill. "Still overcharging for these, I see," he grumbled. "Can't imagine you people staying in business."

I forced out another insincere-smile. "We use the best ingredients we have, sir."

"Sure, yeah," he sneered, brushing me off with a hand gesture. "Your dad's heart probably just gave out from stress over stealing people blind."

That was it.

On impulse, without thought, I grabbed the cupcake and smashed it squarely into the smug, creased face. Vanilla frosting, sprinkles, the whole nine yards — between his eyes.

The café was completely silent.

I glared at him, heaving chest. "Get out."

He stuttered, wiping frosting from his eyes, red-faced and cursing under his breath as he pushed his way to the door. The bell clanged as it closed behind him.

The silence hung there a beat longer, until old Mr. Vance in the corner coughed out a laugh. "Bout time someone did that," he grumbled, earning a few guffaws from the regulars.

I drew a shaking breath, leaning against the counter.

This was my life now. 4AM stress baking. Hospital bill payments we couldn't even afford. Smiling for pity and harsh insults both. Running this business single-handedly while Dad fought to stay alive.

I didn't even have a degree. Dropped out of college as soon as Dad's heart problems started, and never went back. Never had time. Never had a choice.

It was him and me. It had always been the two of us.

And now… life seemed to be tightening down even harder.

I didn't know it yet, but things were about to get a whole lot worse.

I clamped up a little earlier than usual. The bell above the way-out-the-door rang out quietly again as I flipped the sign to Closed. The way it was getting dark, the sun was already setting, casting long orange stripes across the windows.

We weren't like we could be open late tonight. Hell, we could barely afford to be open.

I gathered the day's takings — minimal, a few crumpled notes, a pocket or two of coins, and some bills from locals who always insisted on "keeping us going." I shoved it all into the glass box we'd stashed under the counter, wedging it in tight under the weighty wood table. That box was our lifeline. Rent, groceries, pills — it all came out of that little box.

We lived upstairs. Kaden's House was home, not just a restaurant. A three-story building propped up by stubbornness and memories.

The café took up the first floor, rebuilt by my hands and my dad's over the years. And when times were bad, it doubled as a small community center.

The second floor we rented out for small parties — birthdays, anniversaries, church group gatherings. Thin walls, flickering lights sometimes, but folks loved it. They told us it was like home.

The third floor… that was ours. A one-bedroom, one living room, and a kitchen that just accommodated two people standing side by side. Old photographs decorated the walls. Peeling paint. The smell of coffee and old wood in every corner.

It wasn't much. But it was ours.

I sighed, put on my jacket, and locked the front door behind me. Time to do what had become a daily routine — hospital run.

It wasn't a decision anymore. Every night, after closing the shop, I'd walk fifteen minutes to St. Luke's General. I knew every crack in the sidewalk, every flashing streetlight, every face I passed along the way.

Dad wasn't covered. Never had been. He told us it was too expensive and he was too proud. Now we were paying the price in ways he could never have imagined. His medication was a mile-long list, each more expensive than the last. His surgeries, check-ups, emergencies — all straight from our pockets.

Student loans? Yes, still hanging around. Still choking me. I left in the middle of my degree in Culinary Management when his first heart attack hit. Never went back. Couldn't.

The building was keeping us afloat, but barely. The best it could manage was enough to keep us from sinking completely.

I came into the hospital, a familiar ache settling in my chest as the automatic doors creaked open. The antiseptic air wafted up to greet me the moment I stepped inside.

"Evening, Miles," Nurse Joanna said from behind the desk.

"Hey," I grudged a weak smile. "How's he doing?"

"Stable. He's asked about the cupcakes."

I blew a soft laugh. "Of course he has."

As soon as I logged in, I walked down the corridor to Room 208. Same room every time. Same beep-beeping machines. Same thin, white face propped on a flat pillow.

Dad looked so small in that hospital bed. Tubes and wires connected like some kind of twisted joke to a man who used to carry me on his shoulders and build shelves with his own two hands. His eyes opened as I came in.

"Miles…" His voice was gruff, barely audible.

"Hey, old man," I forced myself to smile, pushing the chair forward. "You scared the hell out of me."

He smiled faintly, reaching out a shaking hand. I took it, my grip tight. "Sorry… Guess I'm not done with torturing you yet."

"You'd better not," I breathed, constricted throat.

We sat quietly for a while, the machines punctuating the air with steady, mechanical beeps.

"I came in early today," I told him, fluffing out some fake lint from the itchy hospital sheet. "Folks were asking about you. Mrs. Carter's praying for you… and I knocked a cupcake off Mr. Harper's head."

That made him chuckle, a rasp, broken noise. "Good… jerk deserved it."

I smiled. "Yeah, he did."

This… this was my life.

And so for the moment — as little, hard, and shaky as it was — it was all I had. 

I did not know that, just down the block, a man in a title, a suit, and a right to my life was waiting in the wings to turn everything on its head.