Mafia's Only Obsession

Natalia’s POV

The black sedan showed up again. Rosa kept acting like she couldn’t see it, like she was blind to its existence, but I wasn’t fooled. I’d been watching it since sunrise, peering through the cafe window as I scrubbed the same patch of counter until it squeaked. The car sat across the street, right in line with our front door; tinted windows, engine turned off. No front license plate. I checked, twice.

When I was a kid, a black car parked outside usually meant someone was about to cry in our kitchen. So, seeing it now? Yeah, my nerves were shot. The rain had been coming down for an hour, but thin enough that you could still see dry patches on the street. That smell, the wet asphalt mixing with espresso, burned sugar, and the hot summer air, slipped in every time someone pushed open the door.

Down at the docks, a crane slammed some metal container onto the pier. Every cup on the shelf rattled. Rosa’s regulars didn’t react anymore, but I still twitched every time.

Big Tony appeared, tracking in rainwater, his hi-vis vest glowing against the gloom.

“Medium dark roast, extra shot,” he said. “And a smile, Nat. Doctor’s orders.”

I rolled my eyes, “The smile costs extra,” I told him.

“That’s robbery,” he muttered.

“Docks pay well.” I slid his cup across, smiling wide enough my cheeks hurt.

He made some dumb joke about the ferry schedule. I laughed automatically, even though I barely heard it. The grin felt practiced, five years of customer service, and I could fake cheerfulness in my sleep. Over his shoulder, the sedan stayed perfectly still.

My phone buzzed against my hip. Text from Clara: Happy birthday, darling. Dinner at seven. Wear something that isn’t gray.

I shot back: Everything I own is gray.

She replied: That’s not a wardrobe, that’s a cry for help.

Okay, that almost made me snicker. But Rosa slapped the pastry case, snapping me back.

“Natalia. That counter is clean,” she barked.

“There was a stain.”

“On Tuesday, there was a stain.”

I tossed the rag aside. Rosa, flour up to her elbows, all five feet of stubborn widow, stood with that look that meant she noticed everything, except the window with the sedan. She had to be working hard not to look at it.

“Come here.”

“Dan needs coffee,” I tried.

“Dan’s asleep,” she countered.

Sure enough, Dan was facedown on the Port Blackwood Ledger, pastry crumbs glued to his cheek.

Rosa tugged me to the back counter and whipped the towel off a lemon cake. One crooked candle flickered.

“Oh, no,” I groaned.

“Oh, yes,” Rosa said. She struck a match; the sulfur stung my nose. “Twenty-two. Make a wish.”

I stared at the flame.

Vincent never bought cake. If it was someone’s birthday, he’d stick a candle in a cannoli, hum off-key, and call it good. No patience for ceremony. I hadn’t heard anyone hum in five years.

My finger found the silver chain around my neck. I fussed with it, twisting the links. “If I say the wish out loud, it won’t happen.”

“If you don’t wish, you waste a candle.”

“Then it’s wasted.”

“Then I’ll wish for you.” Rosa’s rough hand covered mine.

“Something good.”

My mouth twitched. I couldn’t help it, the dimple came out for half a second. Rosa looked smug, holding the match like she’d won a bet.

I blew out the candle. Smoke coiled in the air between us.

“Good girl. Now eat.”

“Is this edible or just for decoration?”

She grabbed the knife. Icing stuck, and the blade rang against the plate. Her hand was trembling.

“Rosa.”

“I’m old, hands get old.”

“That car, black, across the street, it’s been there since yesterday.”

“What car?” she deflected.

“Rosa.”

“Somebody’s lost.”

“Lost for two days?”

“Some people get very lost.” She sliced the cake hard. “You’re too thin.”

“You say that to everyone.”

“Everyone is too thin.”

The bell over the door chimed. I plastered on my customer smile, turned, and let it drop.

Silas Moretti, freshly dripped, glasses fogged solid, clutching a battered folder, stood in the doorway. Raincoat buttoned wrong. Five years back, Silas sat across from me in an office that smelled like lemon polish and cigars: reading my future aloud, never blinking. Now, he couldn’t stop.

“Natalia.” He licked his lips. “Happy birthday.”

“Don’t.”

“Sorry. I’m…not here for cake.”

“People wearing that suit never come for cake.” I set down the fork.

“How’d you find me?”

“I always knew where you were.” He glanced at the sedan outside, flinched hard like something spat at him.“Can we sit? Please.”

Rosa wiped down the back booth without a word. Planted Silas, slid him an espresso, which he ignored, and hovered close, arms folded, flour trailing up her wrists.

I slid in across from Silas. Vinyl squeaked. Rain kept ticking at the glass. Behind me, the machine hissed; a crane boomed; cups clinked.

“You look terrible,” I told him.

“I haven’t slept.” He cracked open the folder, took out a cream-colored envelope with a fat, red wax seal. My name inked across the front. I could’ve recognized Vincent’s handwriting blindfolded, his N, oversized and dramatic, demanding more room than the paper could offer.

I kept my hands on the table.

“Where did you get that?”

“He gave it to me a week before he died. It’s been locked away.” Silas fiddled with his glasses; they just slid back down his nose. “I was told today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.”

“Take it back.”

“I can’t.”

“Burn it then.”

“Natalia.” This time, he met my gaze fully, and I felt it, a full stop. “It’s not just a letter. The clock started ticking at midnight.”

“What clock?”

He didn’t answer, just looked out the window.

“Whatever Vincent left, I don’t want it.” My words came out sharp, but not loud. I kept them quiet, and didn't want anyone else listening in. “I got out, Silas. I packed a suitcase, took the bus. I never looked back. I’m done.”

“Nobody gets out,” Silas said softly, and honestly, that was worse. “Not from this.”

I followed his eyes. The sedan’s headlights flared to life. Both beams slicing patiently through the rain.

Behind me, Rosa’s apron rustled. I heard her murmur a sign of the cross, the soft swish of thumb against forehead, chest, shoulder.

I cracked the seal with my nail. It broke open like a knuckle popping. One sheet inside. I read it before I could think twice.

Piccola, if you’re reading this, the people who took me from you are still breathing. I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep you free forever.

A chill ran down my arms, like the harbor wind had snuck inside. The coffee smell is gone, replaced by something metallic. I clenched the silver chain so tight it bit into my palm. My phone buzzed again. I let it buzz.

“What does he mean, forever?” My voice scraped out wrong. “Silas.”

He pressed both hands to the table, but they still shook.

“I was seventeen. You told me the will was settled.”

“I told you the first part was.”

“You never mentioned a second part.”

“I wasn’t allowed to,” he said quietly, swallowing hard. “Vincent was very specific.”

“The first clause ended at midnight,” Silas whispered.“The second one starts now.”

Across the street, the sedan’s rear door yawned open.

Natalia’s POV

A man stepped out of the sedan. He didn’t even bother with an umbrella, the rain just soaked through his black suit. He shut the car door so quietly you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t watching. Hands at his sides, perfectly calm, like some obedient dog waiting for the signal.

“Don’t,” Silas warned from behind me, but I’d already started for the door.

The bell over the shop clanged, and cold rain slapped my face. Out on the pier, a crane dropped a shipping container and the noise jerked the whole neighborhood awake. I stopped right in the street, standing in a puddle, not ten feet from him.

“That’s close enough.”

He held up both hands.“Miss Cavallo. Enzo Reed. I work for Mr. De Luca.”

Hearing the name, I almost forgot how to breathe.

“Yeah. I know who he is.”

“Mr. Moretti’s office. Tomorrow, ten o’clock. Mr. De Luca wants you there.”

“Wants.”

“That’s what he said.” He almost smiled, but didn’t.

“Tel