WHEN FOREVER FOUND ME

Chapter Three-The Night Everything Changed-Azul

There were days when I believed I had finally built the life I wanted.

Today had been one of those days.

The café had been busy from the moment I opened the doors.

By nine in the morning, the first tray of croissants was gone.

By ten, the cakes had started disappearing.

By noon, there wasn’t much left of the pastries.

People came in for coffee.

People came in for bread.

Families from the surrounding houses stopped by almost every evening because they knew they could depend on me for fresh bread for dinner.

Some bought two loaves.

Some bought five.

Some came every single day.

I knew their faces.

I knew their orders.

I knew which old woman liked her bread slightly darker and which little boy always begged his mother for one of my chocolate pastries.

I didn’t need words to know my customers.

And they didn’t need words from me.

They understood.

By eight o’clock that evening, the café looked completely different from how it had looked that morning.

Empty shelves.

Empty display cases.

Almost nothing left.

I stood behind the counter and looked around.

I smiled.

Everything had sold.

Everything.

The croissants.

The cakes.

The small pastries.

The desserts.

The bread.

Everything.

Business was doing well.

Really well.

Sometimes I still couldn’t believe it.

I had started this place with nothing more than an idea, a small amount of money, and a love for baking.

Now people knew my name.

They knew my bread.

They knew my café.

And for someone like me, that meant everything.

My two employees had already gone home.

I had told them they could leave early.

There wasn’t much left for them to do anyway.

But I wasn’t ready to go home.

Not yet.

There was always something to prepare.

I had flour spread across the counter.

A bowl sat beside me.

My hands moved through the dough slowly, pressing and folding.

Press.

Fold.

Turn.

Press.

Fold.

Turn.

The soft music playing from the small speaker in the corner filled the room.

It was one of my favorite songs.

Something quiet.

Something peaceful.

The kind of music that allowed my mind to become completely empty.

I looked around the café.

The chairs were pushed neatly beneath the tables.

The floor was clean.

The ovens were still warm.

The faint smell of bread lingered in the air.

I loved this.

I loved the quiet after a busy day.

I loved being alone with my thoughts.

I loved knowing that tomorrow morning, I would come back and begin again.

I placed the dough into a bowl and covered it.

Then I began arranging the ingredients I would need for the morning.

Flour.

Butter.

Sugar.

Eggs.

Yeast.

Chocolate.

Everything had its place.

I reached for another container.

And then—

The door opened.

I looked up.

At first, I thought it was a customer who had forgotten something.

Then three men walked inside.

All dressed in black.

My hands stopped moving.

Another man entered.

Then another.

Then another.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Men.

All wearing black.

My heart immediately began beating faster.

I stared at them.

They didn’t look like customers.

They didn’t look like businessmen.

They didn’t look like anyone who belonged in my little café.

And then I saw what was in their hands.

Guns.

My breath caught.

I couldn’t move.

One of the men closed the door behind them.

The music continued playing softly in the background.

That somehow made everything worse.

Because everything was still.

Everything was normal.

Except it wasn’t.

My fingers began trembling.

I took one step backward.

Then another.

And that’s when he walked in.

I didn’t know who he was.

But the moment I saw him, I knew he was different.

He was tall.

Very tall.

Broad shoulders.

Black clothes.

Dark hair.

A face that looked as though it had been carved from stone.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t need to.

The other men moved around him as if they already knew he was the most important person in the room.

He walked slowly into my café.

And then his eyes found mine.

I froze.

He stared at me.

Not casually.

Not like a customer.

He looked at me as though he had never seen anyone like me before.

His gaze traveled across my face.

My hair.

My clothes.

My hands.

Then back to my eyes.

I didn’t understand.

Why was he looking at me like that?

My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it.

He took another step toward me.

Then he pulled out a gun.

My entire body went cold.

He c****d it.

The sound echoed through the café.

I flinched.

My breathing became uneven.

He stopped in front of me.

“What have you been doing in this café?”

I stared at him.

I couldn’t answer.

“Who comes here?”

Nothing.

My mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

I tried.

I swear I tried.

But my throat closed.

My mind wasn’t in the café anymore.

It was somewhere else.

Somewhere dark.

Somewhere filled with shattered glass.

Rain.

Metal.

Screaming.

Nine years old.

My mother’s voice.

The crash.

I blinked rapidly.

No.

No.

I was twenty-four.

I was in my café.

I was safe.

But the gun was still there.

The man was still standing in front of me.

“I’m talking to you.”

I shook my head.

He stared at me.

Then his eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Oh.”

His voice was colder now.

“You’re not going to speak?”

My lips trembled.

I swallowed.

Nothing.

I couldn’t.

I physically couldn’t.

The tears began gathering in my eyes.

I hated that.

I hated crying in front of people.

Especially him.

I shook my head again.

The man watched me.

Then he raised the gun slightly.

“Well,” he said quietly, “if you’re not going to speak…”

My chest tightened.

“…then who are these people?”

I shook my head desperately.

I didn’t know.

I didn’t know what he was asking.

Customers?

My customers?

What did he want from me?

I couldn’t understand.

The gun moved closer.

“I think I’ll put you out of your sorry misery.”

My knees nearly gave way.

I shook my head again.

Faster this time.

Tears slipped down my face.

Please.

Please don’t.

I wanted to say it.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to tell him I didn’t know anything.

That I was just a baker.

That people came here for bread.

For coffee.

For cakes.

That I didn’t know anything about gangs.

About criminals.

About whatever he thought I was involved in.

But no words came.

None.

My hands trembled violently.

I couldn’t breathe.

The man c****d the gun again.

Then suddenly—

One of the men stepped forward.

He leaned toward him and whispered something into his ear.

I couldn’t hear it.

The man’s expression changed.

Only slightly.

But I saw it.

His eyes returned to me.

He looked at me differently.

Not less dangerous.

Different.

He slowly turned his head.

“Everyone out.”

The men immediately moved.

No questions.

No hesitation.

One by one, they walked outside.

The door closed.

And suddenly—

It was just me and him.

My breathing became even harder.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

Neither of us moved.

He lowered the gun slightly.

His eyes moved over me again.

From my face.

To my hair.

To my hands.

To the tears on my cheeks.

Then back to my eyes.

There was something in his expression that I couldn’t understand.

It almost looked like surprise.

Like he had expected to find someone else.

Someone dangerous.

Someone involved.

Instead, he had found me.

A baker.

A quiet man standing behind a counter with flour on his hands.

I couldn’t understand what he saw.

But I knew what I felt.

Fear.

Pure fear.

My entire body was shaking.

My childhood trauma was rising inside me like a wave.

I couldn’t breathe properly.

My chest hurt.

The room seemed smaller.

Smaller.

Smaller.

The walls felt as though they were closing in.

I wanted my mother.

I wanted my father.

I wanted to go home.

The man stared at me for several more seconds.

Then he finally turned.

He walked toward the door.

His hand reached for the handle.

He paused.

For one brief second, he looked back at me.

Our eyes met.

Blue and gray against dark.

Then he walked out.

The door closed behind him.

I stood there.

Frozen.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t breathe.

My hands went to my chest.

I tried to inhale.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

I stumbled backward and grabbed the counter.

My eyes filled with tears again.

I had spent fifteen years building a quiet life.

Fifteen years staying away from violence.

From gangs.

From organized crime.

From people who carried guns.

From anything that reminded me of the worst day of my childhood.

I had built my little café because I wanted peace.

And tonight—

Peace had walked through my door wearing black.

I didn’t know his name.

I didn’t know why he had come.

I didn’t know what he wanted.

And I didn’t want to know.

I just wanted to go home.

I wiped my face quickly.

My hands were still shaking as I moved around the café.

I switched off the ovens.

Turned off the music.

Checked the doors.

Grabbed my bag.

Then I switched off the lights.

The café disappeared into darkness.

I locked the door behind me.

I didn’t even bother checking twice.

I hurried to my scooter.

My fingers barely managed to fit the key into the ignition.

When the engine started, I drove.

Fast.

Faster than I usually did.

The streets blurred around me.

I didn’t stop to look at anything.

I just wanted home.

Home.

My parents.

My room.

Safety.

That was all I wanted.

When I finally reached the farm, I almost jumped off the scooter before it had completely stopped.

I rushed inside.

My mother was in the kitchen.

She turned around immediately.

Her face brightened.

“Honey, you’re home early.”

I said nothing.

I simply shook my head.

Her smile disappeared.

“Azul?”

I looked at her.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded.

She studied my face.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded again.

My father appeared from the other room.

“What happened?”

I shook my head.

“Nothing?”

I nodded.

My father frowned.

He knew me.

They both knew me.

They knew when I was lying.

But tonight, neither of them forced me to explain.

My mother stepped closer.

She touched my cheek.

“You’re shaking.”

I gently moved away.

Not because I didn’t want her.

Because I couldn’t explain.

I couldn’t tell her.

I couldn’t make the words come.

I couldn’t even write them.

Not tonight.

I walked past them.

Straight upstairs.

Into my room.

I closed the door.

Locked it.

Then leaned against it.

My eyes closed.

The memory returned immediately.

The gun.

The man’s voice.

His eyes.

That terrifying calmness.

And the way he had looked at me.

Like I was something he hadn’t expected to find.

I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor.

My knees came to my chest.

I wrapped my arms around them.

And for the first time in years—

I was afraid to sleep.

Because somewhere in Palermo was a man whose name I didn’t know.

A man who carried a gun into my café.

A man surrounded by armed men.

A man who had looked at me as though he had discovered something he wasn’t supposed to find.

And somehow, deep inside me, I knew this wasn’t over.

Not even close.