Page 5
Story: Dark Mafia Crown
Like he’s stamping the moment as his—owning it the way you mark territory. Or send a message.
As he turns to leave, his gaze sweeps the café one last time—then lands on me. He knows I’m watching. The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly—not quite a smile, but a signal. A recognition.
Then he’s gone, the bell over the door tinkling softly as it closes behind him.
I push through the kitchen door and head to the table where the drunk had been sitting. The bill the stranger left is folded neatly on the table. I pick it up—and nearly drop it when I see the denomination—$100.
Ishouldfeel relieved that it didn’t spiral out of control. Grateful, even—for the perfectly timed interruption that pulled the plug before it all went sideways. But instead, I’m left with abitter mix of emotions: unease, curiosity, and something else—something I can’t quite name.
I hate needing anyone. Especially a man like him.
But the truth is, the moment he stood up, my chest loosened, like I’d been holding my breath for hours.
And that feeling—relief? safety?—makes me feel weak. Exposed.
Who was he?
Why did he help me?
What did he say to scare off that asshole?
The rest of my shift passes in a blur. By closing time, my feet throb and my brain feels foggy, but I can’t stop replaying the moment in my head.
As I walk home through the quiet streets, I can’t shake the feeling that something significant happened today. That the encounter with the stranger wasn’t just coincidence, but something deliberate.
And despite everything—the stress of covering for Chiara, the drunk, the never-ending pressure of bills—I catch myself hoping I’ll see him again.
It’s a dangerous thought.
Men like him—powerful, wealthy, intense—don’t mix with women like me.
Not without a reason.
And not without it costing us something.
Still, as I climb the stairs to our apartment, his dark eyes and that almost-smile stay with me.
I tell myself I’m being silly. That the connection I felt was one-sided and meaningless.
But deep down, I know better.
Men like him don’t just disappear.
They come back. And when they do… they change everything.
I don’t know what he is. But something tells me I’ll find out—whether I want to or not.
2
MARCO
Icame to this shithole café to catch D’Angelo’s men crossing into my territory.
What I didn’t expect was the waitress.
She’s too soft for this place. Too unsteady. Like no one taught her how to survive.
And yet, I can’t stop watching her.
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