The Reluctant Mafia Bride

Episode 9

It had always been just us, my mom and me. My father left before I was even born, vanishing without a second thought. He’d remarried, built a whole new life, and he never looked back—never checked in, never paid a dime in child support. He left her to shoulder it all: the long hours, the bills, the worry, and the exhaustion. She took it on without complaint, raising me on her own with a strength I admired more than I could put into words. She was my rock, my world, and I’d do anything to make her proud, to ease her burden even a little.

We sat down at our small, sunlit kitchen table, the stack of pancakes between us filling the room with their warm, buttery scent. We chatted about little things, our voices soft in the quiet morning. She asked me about my plans, her motherly concern always present, always so keenly aware of the tiniest shifts in my mood.

“You got in late last night,” she noted, her tone gentle but laced with that hint of worry that only a mother could have. “Is everything alright?”

Her eyes searched mine, a warm shade of honey-brown, softened with concern. I could see that mother’s intuition flicker in her gaze, that ability to see right through me. I knew she could sense when something was off, even when I didn’t say a word.

I forced a smile, keeping my voice light and steady. “I’m fine, Mom. Just some extra work stuff I had to wrap up.” I could feel the tension under the words, but I held it back, unwilling to let her see. She didn’t need to know what I’d seen last night—the violence, the fear—it would only bring her into danger, and I couldn’t let that happen.

She watched me for a moment, a slight frown marring her brow, but then she nodded, trusting me, as she always had. We finished breakfast, talking about the plans for the day, the comfort of our everyday routine settling back in. I reached over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, catching the warmth in her eyes as she looked up at me.

“I’ll take care of the café today,” I said, my tone casual but resolute. I wanted her to have this one day to rest, even if it was just Saturday. She deserved that, and so much more.

A grateful smile spread across her face, her hand resting on my arm for a brief, grounding moment. “Thank you, honey. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I gave her a small nod, my chest tightening with an overwhelming sense of love and loyalty. “It’s nothing, Mom,” I replied, brushing it off with a shrug. But inside, I meant it deeply. It was never “nothing” to me. It was everything. Taking care of the café for her was my way of easing her load, even if only a little, just like she’d done for me my whole life. This was my way of giving back to her, of showing her that all her sacrifices hadn’t been in vain.

I arrived at the café just as the first soft rays of morning light touched the streets, bathing the building in a gentle, golden hue. The sign above the door, bearing my name in delicate, looping letters, was simple yet inviting, a reflection of everything my mother and I had built together. Beside the name, a painted sketch of a dahlia flower bloomed, its petals open in quiet beauty. That flower was as much a part of this place as the smell of coffee and fresh pastries—the perfect symbol for what we wanted our little corner of the world to be: comforting, familiar, a place to belong.

Unlocking the door, I flipped the "Closed" sign to "Open" and took a moment to breathe in the stillness of the space before the morning rush. Inside, the café was everything we’d dreamed of creating—cozy and welcoming, with soft earth tones and rustic wooden tables that my mom and I had spent countless weekends hunting down and refinishing. On one wall, a row of shelves held mismatched mugs, colorful and chipped in places but carefully chosen for their charm. Green plants spilled over their pots, casting a faint scent of herbs into the air and adding splashes of life to every corner.

Sarah and Jonah were already behind the counter when I walked in, setting up for the day with their usual energy. Sarah, tall with her pixie-cut blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, looked up from where she was adjusting the espresso machine. The moment she saw me, her face broke into a grin. There was a natural ease about her, an effortless confidence that made everyone around her feel at home.

“Morning, boss!” she chirped, her voice bright and cheerful as she flicked a switch, and the espresso machine sputtered to life.

“Hey, Dahlia,” Jonah added, his voice warm and steady. He looked up from placing a fresh tray of golden muffins into the display case, his soft brown eyes meeting mine. He was tall, about six feet, with a relaxed, approachable demeanor that made him the kind of person you could talk to for hours without feeling rushed. At twenty, he balanced his college courses at NYU—where I’d gotten my degree in business administration—and working here for some extra cash. His calm energy was like a steady anchor in the midst of the morning rush.

“Morning, guys,” I said, smiling as I walked behind the counter to join them. “Ready for the breakfast crowd?”

They both nodded, Sarah adjusting the milk frother with practiced hands while Jonah wiped down the counter, making the place look even more polished than it already was.

“Always,” Sarah said with a wink. “And if I can handle the madness of the morning rush, I’ll consider myself a barista expert.”

Jonah chuckled softly, shaking his head. “If I survive this shift, I might be ready for the next level of caffeine-induced chaos.”

I laughed, the sound light and easy between us. They’d become more than just coworkers over the past year. Sarah and Jonah weren’t just employees; they felt like family. They were both younger than me, and over time, they’d come to look up to me like an older sibling. I’d become someone they trusted, someone who understood the balance of hard work and a little bit of laughter to get through the grind.

As the first customers started trickling in, the familiar buzz of the café enveloped us. The older couple, regulars who always shared a scone, shuffled in and exchanged their usual pleasantries. A young woman with a laptop, her eyes half-hidden behind oversized glasses, followed suit, making a beeline for the counter to order her daily latte. We fell into our rhythm, each of us moving in sync, knowing our roles without needing to speak much. The café started to fill, and soon the buzz of conversation, the clinking of mugs, and the hiss of the steam wand became the soundtrack to our morning.

Despite the growing crowd, I couldn't shake the nagging thought in the back of my mind. What if he shows up? The image of Kirill, so vivid from the night before, haunted me, and I couldn't help but glance toward the door every time it opened. I shook my head, trying to focus.

"Everything okay?" Jonah asked, his voice soft but knowing.

I glanced at him, surprised he’d noticed the shift in my mood. "Yeah, just tired," I replied with a smile, trying to brush it off. "You know, long nights."

He nodded, not pressing further, but I could see the concern in his eyes. Sarah caught my glance too and raised an eyebrow, her expression playful but perceptive.

“Let me know if you need a break, boss,” Sarah added, her tone teasing but with an undercurrent of care. “I’ll cover for you. Just don’t make me do all the work.”

I chuckled and nodded, grateful for their concern, but all I could think about was getting through the day without looking over my shoulder every five minutes.