Untitled story

Gunshots ring out somewhere outside my window in this psychotic city. This city is ruled by the mafia and it wouldn't surprise me if they had connections elsewhere in the world.

With a groan I cover my head with my pillow hating the sound of guns. They scare me to no end.

I slowly drift off to sleep and wake up from a dream about a beautiful bouquet of candy. With a smile on my face I get dressed in a baby pink dress with some white flats, I apply some jolly rancher flavored lip gloss and brush my hair out.

I don’t go straight to the candy shop.

Instead, I let myself drift a little farther down the street, toward the tiny café tucked between a bookstore and a closed-down florist. The sign flickers, but the windows glow warm and golden.

Hot chocolate. The thought alone makes me smile.

The bell above the door jingles softly as I step inside, and just like that, the city disappears. It smells like cocoa and sugar and something baked safe, soft, quiet. Perfect. I step up to the counter, already knowing my order.

"Can I get a—” The door slams open behind me.

The entire café goes still and my heart drops. Heavy footsteps. More than one.

I don’t turn around. I don’t want to. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag as that sharp, metallic feeling creeps back into the air.

"Sir, you can’t just—” the barista starts, voice shaking.

A deeper voice cuts through, calm but dangerous.

“Stay out of it.” And then a hand grabs my arm.

I gasp, the words dying in my throat as I’m yanked backward. Everything happens too fast—the café, the warmth, the smell of chocolate—it all disappears as I’m dragged outside.

“No—wait—!” I try, stumbling.

The cold air hits me again, harsher this time.

A car door is wrenched open and I’m shoved inside.

The door slams.

The world narrows to leather seats, dark windows, and the sound of my own breathing as panic finally catches up to me.

Tears spill before I can stop them. I curl in on myself, hands shaking, quiet sobs slipping out no matter how hard I try to hold them back.

Across from me, he watches. Dark eyes. Sharp suit.

Completely unaffected. The kind of man people don’t look at twice if they want to keep breathing.

He sighs, like I’m already annoying him.

“Enough,” he says flatly. “Stop crying.”

I don’t. If anything, it gets worse. He leans forward slightly, irritation flashing across his face.

“You should be grateful you’re still breathing. So pull yourself together and—”

“I just wanted my hot chocolate,” I blurt out, my voice breaking completely. Silence.His expression… shifts.

I sniff, wiping uselessly at my tears.

“I didn’t even get to order it,” I whisper, devastated all over again.

“I was right there…” The car goes quiet.

Completely, utterly quiet. He stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious.

I am. And somehow… that seems to confuse him more than the crying ever did. He finally breaks the silence, leaning back in his seat with one perfectly arched eyebrow.

The car is quiet for what feels like an eternity, the kind of silence that presses in on you and makes every little sound the hum of the engine, the soft patter of rain against the windshield, the faint squeak of leather seats feel impossibly loud. I hug my knees, trying to calm my trembling hands.

He doesn’t speak, but I can feel his gaze on me. The type of gaze that measures, that calculates, that can see right through every layer you think you’ve built around yourself.

“I’m the head of the Falcone family,” he finally says, breaking the quiet. His voice is steady, almost bored, like he’s stating a fact about the weather or the time of day. No inflection and No emphasis just… flat.

I glance up at him through my lashes and nod, dabbing at the last of my tears with the back of my hand.

“Yeah, I know,” I say softly. My voice carries more calm than fear. Maybe too calm. “I still just wanted my hot chocolate.”

His eyes narrow. One sharp, perfectly arched brow rises. The kind of eyebrow raise that makes you realize, maybe for the first time, that this man is dangerous in a very deliberate way. The kind of dangerous that doesn’t need to shout or run around it just exists. It’s quiet, controlled, and impossible to ignore.

“You… you knew?” he asks, tone flat but edged with disbelief.

I nod again, this time with more confidence.

“Of course. I was gonna go to the candy shop after I got it.”

He leans back, silent for a long moment. The way he studies me, I start to wonder if he’s calculating how insane I might be or just marveling at how unfazed I am.

He’s clearly used to people reacting one way: fear, panic, pleading, crying. Not me. Not this calm, tiny girl in a pink dress with her hair still brushed neatly and a lip gloss that smells like Jolly Ranchers.

"You… still want your hot chocolate?” he asks again, deadpan, like it’s physically impossible that someone could care about cocoa while being kidnapped by him.

I sniff once more, wiping at my nose.

“Yes. Very much,” I answer.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitches. A twitch that could be anything a sign of amusement, irritation, or the faintest recognition that I’m unlike anyone he’s ever met.

“You’re… unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. Not loud, not menacing. Just… muttered. Like a fact of the universe that he’s trying to process.

“I know,” I say, shrugging lightly, brushing imaginary lint from my dress.

“But I still want my hot chocolate.”

He lets out a long, quiet sigh, the kind that seems to carry the weight of the world, and then, much to my surprise, he turns the car around.

“I’m getting you your hot chocolate,” he says flatly.

“Don’t move.”

I blink at him, stunned. “Really?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Really.”

I manage a small, almost imperceptible grin, tugging my knees a little closer.

“Thank you.”

The drive to the café is quiet, but it doesn’t feel tense. Not really. At least, not in the way it did when he first grabbed me. It’s more like… waiting for a storm to pass. Or maybe waiting for him to realize just how ridiculous this entire situation is.

When we arrive, I step out first, brushing down my dress and taking a deep breath. The café smells like sugar and cocoa and something baked. Warmth. Safety. Almost unreal after the city outside, after the car, after the fear.

He follows, stepping in behind me with a careful, almost calculated pace. His presence dominates the small space, and yet he doesn’t touch me, doesn’t hover. Just… watches.

I walk up to the counter, taking a moment to look at the menu like I’ve done it a million times before.

“One large hot chocolate,” I say brightly, smiling at the barista.

“With extra marshmallows, please.”

The barista’s eyes widen, but she smiles nervously, already used to the strange, quiet moments this city can produce.

“

Of course, miss.”

I turn around, expecting him to have vanished or worse, for him to be plotting some new way to terrify me but he’s standing just behind me. Hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“You’re… actually here,” I say softly, almost to myself.

“Yes,” he says, deadpan again. “I am.”

I nod, smiling a little. “I appreciate it.”

He doesn’t respond. Not with words. Not with a smile. Not with anything. Just… watches. As if he’s trying to memorize the way I tilt my head when I talk, the way I shift my weight from one foot to the other, the way I stare at the menu like it’s a map to something important.

The barista hands me the cup, steaming and sweet-smelling, and I take it carefully. My hands are still trembling slightly, but this warm cup of cocoa is exactly what I needed. My safe moment in a city that doesn’t offer many of those.

I take a sip. Sweet Hot and perfect. My eyes close briefly, and I can feel some of the tension from the car, from the city, from the day, melt away.

He clears his throat behind me, low and deliberate.

“You… like that?”

I open my eyes, grinning.

“Yes. Very much.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, he mutters under his breath, almost to himself,

“Unbelievable.”

I blink at him. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

I sip my hot chocolate again, humming softly.

“You know, after this, I was going to stop by the candy shop. Get a few things for myself. Maybe some chocolate. Maybe some of those little sour candies that make your tongue hurt a little. You know the ones.”

He watches me. Silent. Calculating. And yet, he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t even comment. Just… watches.

I take another sip, eyes closing again. Sweet. Warm. Perfect. And then I look up at him, smiling.

“But… first, hot chocolate. Always hot chocolate first.”

There’s a pause. Then the corner of his mouth twitches again. Not a smile, not quite, but the hint of something. Recognition? Amusement? I can’t tell.

“Fine,” he says finally, voice low and reluctant. “Hot chocolate first.”

I hum softly, savoring the cocoa. The marshmallows float like little clouds on top, and the chocolate smells so good it almost hurts. Almost.

“You really know how to annoy people,” he mutters.

I laugh softly, small and light.

“I’m not annoying. I just like hot chocolate.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker there. A flicker I can’t quite define. Frustration? Confusion? Maybe even curiosity?

I sip again, tilting my head.

“It’s really good, by the way. Thank you.”

He watches me, silent. And in that silence, I realize something: this man this mafia boss, the kind of man who rules a city with fear he doesn’t know what to do with me. Doesn’t know how to categorize me. Doesn’t know how to react to someone who isn’t scared.

And I… kind of like that.

I finish the last of my cocoa, sighing softly. Warm. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.

“Thank you again,” I say, setting the empty cup down carefully.

He doesn’t answer. He just watches me. And somehow… I think that’s the closest I’ll get to a compliment from him today.

I turn to leave, heading toward the candy shop as I promised. He follows, silent but present, like a shadow I can’t ignore. And somehow… that doesn’t scare me. Not really because I have my hot chocolate.

And for now… that’s enough.

The candy shop smells like heaven. Sweet sugar, chocolate, and a hint of something fruity I can’t quite place. It’s small, cramped even, with tall shelves crammed with jars and boxes of every shape and color.

I almost forget the city outside exists—the mafia, the car, the kidnapping all of it.

I step inside and hum softly, brushing my fingers across the tops of the jars like they’re treasures. I could stay here forever. I could live here, if only the world outside would let me.

Behind me, the door chimes softly, announcing that someone or something is following. I don’t turn around immediately. I know exactly who it is.

"You’re really following me here,” I say without looking.

He doesn’t answer right away. I hear the soft tap of his shoes against the wooden floor, deliberate, careful. Finally, he says, flat as ever, “I didn’t follow. I just came.”

I bite back a grin.

"Uh-huh.”

He pauses as his eyes start scanning the room. I feel his gaze sweep over every candy, every colorful wrapper, every glittering chocolate. It’s almost like he’s trying to memorize the layout. Or maybe he’s just trying not to be bored. Or maybe I don’t know. But I do know one thing: he’s completely out of his element.

Perfect.

I walk over to a shelf filled with small, brightly wrapped candies. My fingers hover over the jars, indecisive. There’s so much to choose from. Sour, sweet, bitter, chocolate-covered, sugar-dusted. I could make a bouquet of candy right here, right now.

“Do you always take your time this long?” he asks finally, voice low, calm, but with that edge that says he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

I glance at him, grinning faintly.

“Only when it matters.”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to read me.

Clearly, he’s not used to people like mepeople who aren’t terrified. People who aren’t begging for their lives. People who… care about candy when their life just got slightly more complicated.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks suddenly, a challenge hiding behind his words.

I shrug, still browsing the jars.

“Yeah. I know. Mafia boss. Big scary man. Rules the city. Blah, blah, blah.” I hum softly, almost to myself, picking up a few candies.

“Doesn’t scare me. Still wanna make a bouquet.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. A small, almost imperceptible movement. He’s not used to this. People usually cower. People usually whimper. People usually beg. But me? I’m picking out candy. Like everything else is irrelevant.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.

I hum again, ignoring him.

"Thank you. I try.”

I grab a few more candies, arranging them carefully in my hands like a miniature bouquet. The colors clash in the most ridiculous, beautiful way. Pink, blue, green, gold, silver. It looks like a rainbow exploded in my hands.

"Do you always make your own bouquets?” he asks, tone cautious, curious.

I glance at him. “Only when I can. You get to choose the candy, the colors, the shapes. It’s personal.”

He studies me for a moment, and I can see the calculation behind his eyes. He’s thinking about control, about power, about fear. He’s thinking about everything except candy. And I don’t care I finish my bouquet, tying it together with a thin ribbon I found in the back. I hold it up proudly.

“There. Perfect.” He looks at it like it’s some kind of alien object.

“You… made that?”

“Yes.” I grin faintly. “I did. Want to touch it?”

He freezes, then shakes his head sharply.

“No. I don’t want to touch it.”he snaps and I laugh softly.

“Alright, alright. Your candy empire. Your rules.”