Caterina woke curled on the couch, quilt tangled around her legs, neck stiff from the awkward angle. Sunlight sliced through the curtains in thin strips.
For a heartbeat she forgot—then the cracked phone screen on the coffee table caught the light, spiderweb fractures glinting with the memories of the night.
She sat up slowly, her muscles aching from tension. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant clatter of a garbage truck outside. The chair was untouched, still wedged under the doorknob.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing the images away—the snap of the head, the spray against brick, the gurgle, the man who’d dragged her into shadow, his hot breath, his grip on her.
Her stomach twisted into a cold knot of fear that made her breath hitch. What if he was watching now? If "we" meant more than just him, were there eyes everywhere, waiting for her to slip?
She hadn’t called. Hadn’t told anyone. The voicemail to her mother was long deleted, and the text to Jess remained unanswered. But even those felt like risks now, like invisible threads that could pull danger closer.
Coffee. She needed coffee that wasn’t spilled across an alley.
The kitchen felt smaller this morning, the counters too close. She filled the kettle, hands shaking enough that water sloshed over the edge. The burner clicked on, flame steady beneath the pot. She needed her routine.
Caterina moved to the window, hesitated, then pulled the curtain back an inch.
Her heart pounded as she scanned the street below. It was the usual crowd, but any one of them could be watching. Was that man by the corner shop lingering too long? Was the woman sweeping her stoop glancing up at her window?
She exhaled shakily, her breath fogging the glass, and let the curtain fall.
The kettle whistled, shrill and insistent. She poured water over the grounds of her French press, letting it steep, before flushing the grounds, the dark bloom spreading in the glass. The smell was bitter as she poured herself a mug. She wrapped both hands around it, letting the heat seep into her palms, but even that couldn't chase away the chill in her bones.
Her phone sat on the counter, screen dark. She stared at it.
Call the police. Now. While it’s fresh. While the memory is sharp.
Her thumb trembled over the emergency dial, but the man’s threat echoed louder. What if they intercepted calls? What if reporting it painted a target on her back? She pictured sirens drawing attention, questions leading to more people closing in.
She set the phone face-down, and took a sip of coffee that burned her tongue.
Good. Pain was real. Pain was here, a distraction from the terror gnawing at her edges.
She dressed in layers. Her softest sweater, jeans, and a scarf wrapped twice around her neck as though extra fabric could armor her against what she’d seen. Her reflection in the mirror looked haunted, eyes shadowed, skin pale. She forced a smile, but it lilted at the edges.
The walk to the bakery felt longer than it should. Every step was a battle against the urge to run. Every corner made her flinch, her pulse spiking as she imagined hands grabbing from the dark. Every man in a dark coat looked too broad, too still, their builds echoing either of the men from last night.
She kept her head down, steps quick but not running.
But she did, once, twice, her breath coming in shallow gasps, convinced footsteps echoed behind her.
The bell above the door jingled, too cheerful for her frayed nerves. Inside, the air was thick with yeast and sugar. A handful of regulars sat at small tables, newspapers open, voices low. She scanned their faces instinctively.
She ordered an espresso and a cornetto at the counter, hoping excess caffeine would clear her mind. The barista, a man with sleeves of faded tattoos, slid the cup toward her without meeting her eyes.
"Rough night?" he asked, tone neutral.
Caterina’s fingers tightened around the saucer, her heart lurching. How could he know? Was it written on her face? "What makes you say that?"
He shrugged, wiping the steam wand. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Ghost. Like the dead man in the alley.
She didn’t answer. Just took her coffee to a table near the window and sat facing the door, back to the wall, eyes darting to every new customer.
Around her, conversation drifted, too quick to follow completely.
Caterina’s fork paused mid-bite. She leaned in slightly, feigning interest in her phone, her pulse thudding.
"One less problem," another murmured in agreement, sipping his coffee.
One of the older men at the nearest table folded his newspaper, revealing a small headline buried on page seven: Man Dead in Robbery Attempt. No photo. No details beyond time and location. It was twisted into something mundane.
She stared at the words until they blurred.
A shadow fell across her table.
She glanced up and forgot to breathe.
The man standing there filled the space without effort. Tall, broad through the shoulders, dark coat open over a charcoal suit that fit him like it had been invented for his body alone. His build reminded her too much of the man that had grabbed her. His hair was black, thick, and swept back just enough to reveal a sharp hairline. His face was all angles, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked made for both smiles and threats. Dark eyes fixed on her with quiet intensity, and for a split second, she saw a casual menace in that gaze.
He didn't ask. He simply pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat in one fluid movement, claiming the space as if the bakery belonged to him.
Her mind screamed to run, but her legs felt glued, trapped by the same fear that had frozen her in the alley.
Up close, the scent of him reached her. Definitely something expensive, cedar and smoke, with a trace of coffee underneath. But beneath it, she imagined the faint metallic tang of gunpowder, though she knew it was her paranoia.
"You're new," he said. Not a question. His voice was low and lightly accented, the kind of voice that didn't need volume to be heard, but it carried the same gravelly edge she’d heard last night.
Caterina's fingers tightened around her cup, knuckles white. "I... yes." The words came out smaller than she intended, her voice quivering with the effort not to bolt.
A faint curve touched his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Santino Amodei." He extended a hand across the small table.
She hesitated, her hand shaking as she slipped it into his. His palm was warm and calloused. His grip was firm but careful, as though he knew exactly how much strength to use. His thumb brushed once across her knuckles before releasing, a touch so brief she might have imagined it if her skin didn't tingle afterward, mixing the warmth with repulsion.
"Caterina Mantovano," she managed, voice barely above the clatter of cups around them.
"I know." The smile deepened, revealing a flash of white teeth. "You teach kindergarten at St. Agnes. My cousin and I support the school."
Her heart stumbled. Amodei. She had heard whispers from the teachers about generous local businessmen, but nothing concrete.
Santino leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, studying her with unhurried interest that made her skin crawl. "You look like someone who didn't sleep much."
“Busy weekend,” she forced herself to respond.
Santino tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Busy night, you mean. You walked home late. After midnight. Alone.”
Her breath caught, terror flooding her veins like ice.
How could he possibly know? Unless... he was watching. Or part of "we."
She looked up, eyes wide, voice a whisper. “How do you—”
“People talk,” he said softly, but his tone held an undercurrent of amusement that didn't match the alley's menace. “Especially when a pretty new teacher wanders the streets at that hour. Makes folks nervous. For you.”
“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly, her voice cracking as she fought the urge to glance at the door.
“Are you?” Santino’s voice dropped lower, almost gentle, but it only heightened her fear. “Because you look like you’ve seen something you can’t unsee.”
She froze, the alley flashing behind her eyes—the snap, the spray, the gurgle. The hand over her mouth.
Her hands trembled visibly now, coffee sloshing in the cup. Was this a test? A warning?
“I—” She swallowed hard, throat dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Santino’s smile softened, almost kind, but his eyes held a spark of something protective, like he was weighing her fear against some internal debate.
“You do. I can see it in your eyes. That little flicker. Like someone just took something from you and you’re still trying to figure out what it was.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the cup, nails digging into her palms to ground herself. “I’m just… tired.”
“Tired people don’t flinch at shadows,” he said quietly. “Tired people don’t look over their shoulder every three steps. Scared people do.”
She stared at him, her breath shallow, the resemblance to the alley men making her stomach churn.
“I’m not scared,” she lied, but her voice wavered, betraying her.
“Liar,” he murmured, voice fond, almost teasing, as if trying to coax her trust despite the danger radiating from him. “Beautiful liar, but still a liar.”
He leaned back slightly, giving her air, but his gaze never left her face, softening just enough to suggest he saw her as more than a problem. “Whatever it was, it’s already being taken care of.”
Her stomach dropped, bile rising. What if "taken care of" meant her?
Santino’s eyes darkened just a fraction, but with a hint of reluctance, like he was pushing back against some darker impulse. “The neighborhood has its own way of handling things. Quick. Clean. No loose ends.”
She thought of the man in the shadows. The one who’d grabbed her. The one who’d said the same thing. Her vision blurred with unshed tears of fear—was this man here to finish it? To tie up the loose end she represented?
“I don’t want any part of... whatever this is,” she whispered, voice trembling, her body coiled to flee.
Santino’s expression softened further, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out but held back.
“Then stay out of it. But if you ever need someone to stand between you and whatever comes next—you have my number.”
He placed a business card on the table between them. Thick cream stock with simple black lettering: Santino Amodei. A single phone number beneath. It looked innocuous, like any businessman's card, but to her, it felt like a trap.
His fingers lingered on it a moment, then withdrew, his gaze on her with a warmth that clashed with her terror. “Day or night, dolcezza. Doesn’t matter.”
Before she could form a reply, the bell jingled again.
The temperature in the room seemed to shift, a colder draft sweeping in.
Another man stepped inside. He was taller, leaner, and moved like a predator—his stride too purposeful, too reminiscent of the shooter's casual melt into shadows. His suit was black and his tie knotted precisely. His hair was darker, almost blue-black under the lights, and his eyes were a colder shade, grayish green and piercing.
A faint scar traced the edge of his jaw, silver against olive skin, adding to the air of quiet threat. He scanned the room once, gaze landing on Santino, then sliding to Caterina with a calculating chill that made her blood freeze.
The air felt thinner, her fear spiking anew. This one looked even more like trouble.
He approached slowly. The bakery noises seemed to dim under the weight of his presence.
"Luciano," Santino greeted, voice warm with familiarity, but he didn't stand, and there was a subtle tension in his posture, like he was bracing for disagreement.
Luciano didn't answer with words. He simply stopped beside her chair, close enough that she caught his scent, something like winter air and leather. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, her heart hammering as she imagined him drawing a gun with the same ease as the alley killer.
He looked down at her for a long moment, expression unreadable, but his eyes held a shadow of something lethal, like he was assessing a risk to be eliminated.
"Luciano is my cousin and business partner. Luciano, this is Caterina," Santino supplied, a hint of amusement threading his tone, but undercut with a protective edge, as if subtly challenging the other.
Luciano's gaze didn't leave her face. "Miss Mantovano," he said finally. His voice was deeper, rougher, like gravel under silk, carrying a finality that made her flinch inwardly.
She swallowed, throat tight with dread.
"Hello." It came out a whisper, her hands clammy under the table.
Something dark flickered in his eyes, perhaps weighing her as a loose end.
He reached past her to pull out the chair beside Santino, the movement bringing his arm inches from her shoulder. She felt the warmth of him, the controlled power in the way his coat brushed her, but it only amplified her terror.
He sat, long legs stretched slightly under the small table, and the space suddenly felt crowded in a way that made her pulse race, trapped between two men who mirrored her nightmares.
Santino's smile widened, easy and dangerous, but with a glance at Luciano that held a silent plea.
"We were just discussing how overwhelming the city can be."
Luciano's gaze flicked to his cousin, a subtle tension in his jaw, as if disagreeing with Santino's soft approach. Then back to her, cool and unwavering.
"Especially when you see things you shouldn't,” he stated.
Caterina's heart slammed against her ribs, fear choking her.
Did he know? Was this the end?
She stared at her cornetto, crumbling it further between nervous fingers, her mind screaming to escape. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken threats.
Luciano's voice cut through it again, low and measured, each word laced with a subtle edge that made her skin prickle. "Chicago has rules, Miss Mantovano. Unwritten ones. Break them, and things get... complicated."
She glanced up despite herself, her voice barely audible. "I didn't break any rules."
His eyes narrowed faintly, the scar on his jaw tightening as he leaned in a fraction closer, his tone dropping to something almost intimate yet chilling. "Witnessing isn't participation. But it can be a problem all the same. Problems need solutions."
Santino broke in, voice soft but insistent, his eyes on Luciano with a hint of defiance. "You don't need to be afraid here, Caterina. Not with us around."
She dared a glance up. Both men were watching her, Santino with that charming curiosity laced with genuine concern; Luciano with an unwavering intensity that bordered on predatory, like he was still deciding if mercy was worth the risk.
Together, they were like standing between sun and shadow, but the shadow felt ready to engulf her.
Her voice came out small, trembling at the edges. "I... I don't know what you mean."
Luciano leaned forward just enough for her to feel the shift, his eyes narrowing faintly, as if calculating the cleanest way to end it all.
"We think you do. And if you don't forget quickly... well, we might have to help you with that."
The cousins rose, a synchronized movement that felt rehearsed—Santino glancing at Luciano with a look, before leaning forwards once more, pointing at the card.
“For anything, really, don’t be scared to reach out.”
With that, he buttoned his coat. Luciano turned toward the door.
They left together, the bell jingling behind them.
Caterina sat there a long time after, espresso gone cold, and the cornetto lay in ruins on her plate. Her hands shook as she pocketed the card, unsure if it was salvation or a sentence, the fear coiling tighter in her chest.
Cross-posted on Wattpad, AO3