Sixty Seconds in the City

Vito folds the paper. Sets it aside. Stands up. He moves like a predator. Slow. Smooth. Dangerous. “Your father is fine. The café is fine. My men are watching it. Protecting it.”

I shake my head. “That’s not the same. I need to be there. I need to work.”

Vito’s eyes narrow. “You don’t work there anymore. You don’t work anywhere. Your place is here. With me.”

Anger burns in my chest. Hot. Bright. “I’m not your property. I’m not your slave. I’m not going to just sit here and do nothing.”

Vito steps closer. His hand wraps around my arm. His touch is gentle. But his grip is strong. “You’ll do what I say. When I say it. That’s the deal you made.”

I jerk away. Step back. Put distance between us. “The deal was my silence for my family’s safety. Not my freedom for your control.”

Vito’s jaw tightens. “The deal is whatever I say it is. You’re my wife. You’ll act like it.”

I stare at him. At the coldness in his eyes. The certainty in his voice. He really believes this. Believes he owns me. That I’m his.

I take a deep breath. Try a different approach. “If I’m your wife, then trust me. Let me go to the café. Let me have this one thing.”

Vito’s eyes search mine. Looking for something. I don’t know what. “Fine,” he says finally. “But I go with you. And you don’t leave my sight. Not for a second.”

I nod. I’ll take any freedom I can get. Even with a leash.

We take the elevator down. Vito’s men are everywhere. In the lobby. By the doors. Watching. Waiting. Protecting their boss. Their prize.

The car is waiting outside. Vito opens my door. Helps me in. His touch is polite. Proper. Like he’s a gentleman. Not a killer.

The ride to the café is silent. I stare out the window. Watch the city go by. My city. My home. I feel like a stranger in it now. Like I don’t belong.

We pull up outside the café. It looks the same. The same blue awning. The same white tables outside. The same sign above the door. Sardella’s. My name. My legacy.

But it feels different. Like it’s not mine anymore. Like it belongs to Vito now. To the Mannos.

Vito opens my door. Helps me out. His hand on my back is light. But I feel it. Feel the weight of it. The ownership.

Inside, the café is busy. Full of people. Talking. Laughing. Living their lives. Like nothing has changed. Like my world hasn’t ended.

My father is behind the counter. He looks up when I walk in. His eyes widen. Then he sees Vito behind me. His face pales. He looks down. Away.

I walk over to him. Vito follows. Close enough to touch. Close enough to control.

“Fiorella,” my father says. His voice is rough. “You’re here.”

I nod. I don’t know what to say. What to do. This man is my father. But he sold me. Traded me for his own safety. His own pride.

“Vito,” my father says. He nods at the man behind me. Respectful. Afraid.

Vito nods back. “Mario.” His voice is cold. Dismissive.

My father looks at me. Then at Vito. Then back at me. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he says finally. “That’s all that matters.”

I stare at him. Is he serious? Does he really believe that? That my safety is all that matters? What about my happiness? My freedom? My choice?

“I need to work,” I say. My voice is flat. Empty. “I need to do something.”

My father shakes his head. “No. You don’t. You’re a Manno now. You don’t need to work.”

I look at Vito. He’s watching me. His eyes are dark. Unreadable. “She can work,” he says. “If she wants to.”

My father stares at him. Surprised. Confused. “But she’s your wife. She shouldn’t have to work.”

Vito shrugs. “She’s my wife. She can do what she wants.” He looks at me. “But only here. Only with me.”

I nod. I’ll take it. I’ll take any piece of my old life I can get.

I step behind the counter. Tie on my apron. It feels familiar. Comforting. Like coming home.

I start making coffee. Grinding beans. Frothing milk. Pulling shots. The movements are easy. Natural. Like breathing.

Vito sits at a table nearby. Watching me. Watching the door. Watching everyone who comes in.

His presence is constant. Heavy. But I try to ignore it. Try to focus on the work. On the smell of coffee. The sound of the machine.

Hours pass. I serve customers. Clean tables. Restock supplies. Vito never moves. Never takes his eyes off me.

When the lunch rush slows, I take a break. Pour myself a coffee. Sit at a table in the corner. Vito follows. Sits across from me.

We don’t talk. We just sit. Sipping our coffees. Watching the people go by.

The silence is heavy. Awkward. But not uncomfortable. Not really.

I look at Vito. At his strong jaw. His dark eyes. His expensive suit. He’s handsome. There’s no denying that. But he’s also dangerous. Deadly. A killer.

But right now, sitting across from me, he just looks like a man. A tired man. A lonely man.

“Why did you let me come here?” I ask. The question slips out before I can stop it.

Vito looks at me. His eyes are dark. Guarded. “You asked. I said yes.”

I shake my head. “That’s not an answer. You don’t do things just because someone asks. You do things because they benefit you. Because they serve your interests.”

Vito takes a sip of his coffee. Sets the cup down. “Maybe it benefits me to keep you happy. To keep you quiet.”

I stare at him. Is that all I am to him? A problem to solve? A pet to keep happy?

“Is that all?” I ask. My voice is soft. “Is that the only reason?”

Vito’s eyes meet mine. For a moment, I see something in them. Something warm. Something human. But then it’s gone. Hidden behind the coldness. The control.

“No,” he says finally. “It’s not the only reason.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t explain. But I feel it. The attraction between us. The pull. The heat.

It’s there. Under the surface. Beneath the anger. The fear. The distrust.

I look away. Break the connection. I can’t think about that. Can’t feel that. Not now. Not with him.

I stand up. Finish my coffee in one gulp. “Break’s over,” I say. “Back to work.”

Vito stands up too. Follows me back behind the counter. His presence is constant. Unavoidable.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. I work. Vito watches. My father avoids us both.

When the café closes, Vito takes me back to the penthouse. Back to my cage. Back to my prison.

But something has changed. Something is different. I feel it. He feels it.

The attraction is there. The pull. The heat. It’s real. It’s strong. It’s dangerous.

I don’t know what to do with it. What to think of it. What to feel about it.

All I know is that I’m not trapped. Not completely. Not yet. I have the café. I have my work. I have a piece of myself. A piece of my life.

And I have Vito. Watching me. Wanting me. Waiting for me to slip. To fall. To give in.

I won’t. I can’t. I have to be strong. Have to be smart. Have to find a way out of this. A way to be free.

But as I lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I can’t stop thinking about him. About his eyes. His touch. His smell.

I can’t stop wondering what it would be like. To be his wife. Really his wife. To be in his arms. In his bed. In his life.

I can’t stop wanting it. Needing it. Craving it.

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Push the thoughts away. Push the feelings down. Deep. Deep. Where they can’t hurt me. Can’t control me.

I’m Fiorella Sardella. I’m strong. I’m smart. I’m a survivor.

I’ll get through this. I’ll find a way. I have to.

The next few days blur together. I work at the café. Vito watches. We eat dinner in silence. Sleep in separate rooms. Pretend this is normal. That we’re not prisoners in a gilded cage.

But at night, when the city is quiet and the penthouse is dark, we talk. Not about anything important. Not about the wedding. The arrangement. The danger we’re in. But about little things. Stupid things. Things that don’t matter.

“How did you learn to make coffee like that?” Vito asks one night. We’re sitting in the living room. Him in his chair. Me on the couch. The city lights twinkle outside the window.