Chapter 2 A ghost in the cafe

Flora

"I'll scream," I said, turning back to the man. "I'll scream and fight and someone will call the police."

He laughed. "Look around, sweetie. No one here is going to help you. No one cares what happens to a poor little waitress. Now come. I've paid good money and I intend to get my worth."

He dragged me towards the door. I fought, pulling against his grip, my shoes sliding on the tile floor. My mother's ring dug into my heel. The only thing I owned. The only proof I'd ever been loved.

I wasn't going to let this happen. I couldn't.

But I was small and tired and he was strong and determined, and the door was getting closer with every step.

Rafael 

“She’s been dead for five years Rafael. Five years. You need to let her go.” 

I didn't look at Marco. I kept my eyes on the amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the light from the chandelier above. My office was quiet except for the sound of his breathing and the distant him of the city below. 

“Get out.” My voice was cold. 

“Rafael, please listen to me.” 

Marco voice was always careful. He ws my second in command, my most trusted man, but even he knew there were lines he shouldn't cross. But he was crossing one now. 

“You can't keep living like this. Eva wouldn't want this.” 

My hand tightened around the glass. “You don't know what Eva would want.” 

“I knew her too. She was kind. She was good. She would hate to see you like this.” He stepped closer, his footsteps soft on the Persian rug. “You’ve destroyed every family that had anything to do with her death. You’ve built an empire. You’ve done everything you set to do. But you're still standing in her doorway every night, talking to an empty room.” 

I finally looked at him. Marco was forty-two, graying at the temples, with tired eyes that had seen too much. He served my father before me. He was there the night Eva died. He held me back while the medics tried to save her, while her blood soaked into the cobblestones, while she took her last breath looking at me like I was supposed to save her. 

I didn't save her. 

“If you value your position,” I said quietly, “you'll leave. Now.” 

Marco’s jaw tightened. For a momemt, I thought he might actually argue. But then he nodded once and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the handle. 

“The Rossi shipment arrives tomorrow. The Russians want to meet about the territory dispute. And Isabella called. She wants to know if you're coming to dinner on Sunday.” 

“Tell Isabella I'll think about it. Handle the Russians. I don't care about the shipment.” I said without looking at him. 

“Rafael.” 

“What?” My brows raised. 

He turned, his expression between pity and frustration. “When was the last time you left this house for something that wasn't business?” 

I took along drink from my glass. “Get out, Marco.” 

He left without another word. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. It always was. I stood and walked to the widow, looking out over Porto Nero. 

The city sprawled below with golden lights reflecting off the dark water of the harbor. Somewhere out there, people were living, laughing, loving and moving forward. 

While I was stuck in a moment give years past, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to let go. 

Eva’s last words echoed in my head like they did every night. Find me again. What did that mean? Find where? In death? Im memory? In another life? 

I didn't believe in another life. I barely believed in this one. 

My phone buzzed. A text from Isabella flashed across my screen. “Sunday dinner. I will be preparing your favorite. Don't make me eat alone.” 

I didn't reply. 

Instead, I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. Marco was right about one thing. I needed to get out out of this house before the walls closed in completely. 

Twenty minutes later, I was walking along the waterfront. My guards followed quietly at a distance, four guards that never left my side. The night air was cool, salt-tinged, and familiar. This was Eva’s favourite time of the day. Twilight, she called it. When the world was caught between light and darkness, beautiful, yet uncertain. 

I found myself walking towards the old district, the narrow streets lined with cafés and shops that catered to tourists. I hadn't been here in years. 

Not since that night.

But my feet remembered the way. 

The café was still there. It was small, tucked between a bookshop and a gelato stand, with tables spilling onto the sidewalk. It looked the same as it did seven years ago when I brought Eva here for our first date. She ordered tiramisu and red wine. She laughed at my jokes even when they weren't funny. She told me about her dreams of opening a dance studio for children who couldn't afford lessons.

She made me believe I could be more than what I was born to be. 

I stood across the street, staring at the cafe like it might disappear if I looked away. My guards shifted behind me. I never came to places like this after the death of Eva. I never wandered. I never stood on street corners lost in memories. 

“Boss?” Marco's voice cracked through the earpiece I wore. He was monitoring from the car. “Everything okay?” 

“Fine,” I said. 

I wasn't fine. I hadn't been fine in five years. 

But I crossed the street anyway. I walked into the café. The bell across the door chimed, bright and cheerful, completely at odds with the weight in my chest. 

The interior was warm, and dimly lit. Smelling if coffee and fresh bread. A few customers were scattered at the tables. An old man was reading a newspaper. A couple were whispering over shared dessert. Normal people living normal lives. 

I sat at a table by window. The same table where Eva and I sat seven years ago. My guards took positions by the door and near the counter. The owner, a round man with a mustache, looked nervous. He recognized me. Everyone in Porto Nero recognized me. 

“Wine,” I told him. “Red. The house vintage.” 

He scurried away. 

I shouldn't have come here. This was a mistake. Being here without Eva felt like betraying her memory, like admitting she was really gone. 

The owner returned with my wine. His hands shook as he poured. I didn't blame him. I had that effect on people. 

I lifted the glass, studying the deep red color. Eva loved red wine. She said it tasted like cherries and summer. 

Then, a slow movement caught my eye. A waitress cleaning a table near the back. She was small, graceful, and moving with the kind of fluid efficiency that came from years of practice. She had an auburn hur pulled back in a ponytail. She turned, balancing plates on her arm, and for just a second, I saw her profile. 

My heart stopped. 

No. It couldn't be.