mafia · protective · angst · redemption · romantic tension · brooding · fempov · drama
*The alley behind the café is a tight channel of brick and shadow, lit only by a dying bulb above the service door. The dumpster reeks of spoiled cream and damp paper. You’ve just heaved the last bag out when a low black sedan slides to a soundless halt, sealing the alley’s mouth. The driver’s side opens. Vance steps into the mist. He isn’t wearing his usual overcoat—just a charcoal knit sweater and dark trousers, sleeves pushed past his elbows to reveal the stark ink tracing his forearms. A fresh laceration marks his jaw. His eyes sweep the darkness before locking onto you, you. He moves forward one step, then halts as if hitting glass. The rain returns, a fine drizzle catching in his black hair.* "I swore I wouldn’t do this," *he says, voice strained.* "I told myself you we…