“Have you been doing those morning affirmations I taught you?” chirps my best friend Rafaela through the speakerphone.

I roll my eyes, relieved that she can’t see me do it. It’s midday, and the store has been dead-empty for two hours. At this rate, I’m half-tempted to call it a day and just go home, but that ravenous, desperate hunger for a sale keeps me riveted to my usual haunt behind the counter. Besides, my mind is distracted. It’s hard to think about work when all my thoughts seem to center around that handsome, rugged guy who came into the shop a few days ago. Last night, I even dreamed about him, only I couldn’t quite see his face.

Something about him is so shockingly familiar, but he kept looking away from me, speaking in a low voice. He definitely fit the bill of tall, dark and mysterious. I can’t imagine where I would know him from. At first, I thought maybe he was a guy from my classes or something, but I don’t remember seeing anyone looking so rough and unkempt on campus. Everything about him seemed to exude mystery, from the way he dodged my gaze and wore his hood up to the way he seemed to appear and disappear without giving me a chance to even ask his name.

My brain has been working overtime to try and figure him out. Why did my body have such a strange, visceral reaction to his presence? It felt almost like deja vu, like we have met before sometime, maybe once upon a dream. It’s like he’s just on the tip of my tongue, and I can’t help but feel like if maybe I had seen his face properly, I would know who he is.

It’s enough to drive me mad, especially when work is so boring and there’s nothing to distract me from my thoughts. Luckily, Rafaela is between classes right now, so it’s the perfect time to chat.

I lean over the phone lying on the counter and reply, “Yeah, yeah. Breathe in, breathe out, I’m a powerful goddess woman who can handle whatever life throws my way, blah blah blah.”

“Hey!” she laughs, failing to sound indignant. “You know, that kind of thing really does help a lot of people with their self-confidence. It’s not all just psycho-babble, I swear.”

“I know, I know,” I answer, resting my chin on my hands as I watch the rain streak down the front window of the shop. “Maybe that’s why it’s so slow today,” I murmur aloud.

“What?” Rafaela asks, confused.

“Oh, God, sorry. I just zoned out for a minute. It’s raining cats and dogs over here. I think maybe that’s why nobody is coming into the shop today. You know how New Yorkers are— they’re all too comfy in their apartments to go outside unless it’s nice out.”

Rafaela chuckles. “Yeah, like you wouldn’t be snuggled up under a blanket back in Riverdale right now if you had the option.”

“True,” I admit, sighing. “I wish I was home right now. Watching TV, painting my nails, sipping some tea… ugh, now you’ve just killed the last measly dregs of my willpower today. If I can manage to get through the afternoon without calling it quits, it’ll be a miracle.”

“I feel you there, girl. I literally almost fell asleep on the subway this morning.”

I burst out laughing, picturing my friend with her long, curly black hair and signature scarlet lipstick nodding off on the train, falling over into the lap of some scruffy homeless guy. Then I can’t help but picture the guy who came into the shop a few days ago. My mystery man. He’d looked pretty scruffy, himself. What is his story? Who is he?

I shake the thought away and reply, “Yeah, that would’ve been pretty bad.”

“I swear, between classes and the bar and studying and trying to still be a good girlfriend to Nico, the grind is about to put me out of commission for good,” she laments. “And yeah, I know it’s all good for my future or whatever, but really, I’m just tired. You know?”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” I agree. “You and me both. We haven’t even had a proper girls’ night in, like, months. I miss being roommates with you. Are you sure you don’t want to move into my empty old house with me and my mom? I’m only half-joking here,” I add with a laugh.

“Hmm, tempting offer, but I don’t think Mama De Laurentis would be too pleased to have me and Nico move into that old manor. She’s a little old for our antics, I think.”

I try to visualize what our household would look like—and it is not a pretty picture. My mom is a very private person these days, having retreated into a quiet loneliness to lick her wounds after losing everything years ago when Dad died. Vivacious, quick-talking Rafaela would be the opposite of a calming presence for my mom, even though for me, she’s been a lifesaver in the past couple of years. Rafaela and I met in college, when I was studying business and she was a psychology Master’s student. Somehow, we ended up having lunch together in the courtyard almost every week, and our friendship blossomed from there. I’m done with school after earning my Bachelor’s, but Rafaela is still chiseling away at a PhD. She’s six years older than me, but every bit as determined and ambitious, and for a while we even lived together. It was never a permanent situation, as I was still paying for the mortgage on my family home in Riverdale, but during exam times it just made more sense to crash at Rafaela and Nico’s apartment rather than wasting time going back and forth all the time.

Living with Rafaela gave me a taste of freedom and independence I still crave, but my duty to keep the family home running and afloat, as well as take care of my mom, keeps me where I am. Sure, it’s frustrating sometimes, but my dad taught me that family is the most important thing in the world. And I know he would want me to look after mom and the old house, so I do it for him.

“I’m working at the bar tonight if you want to come by!” Rafaela says brightly. She runs a bar called Room With A View alongside her boyfriend Nico, and when I was a student I spent a lot of time there. In fact, I wrote most of my reports and term papers sitting at the corner table of the bar. It was a cozy, homey atmosphere, and I missed it.

“I’ll see what I can do. So, is your next class the one with the hot professor?” I ask, quickly changing the subject. But before I can hear Rafaela’s response, my attention is distracted by the flash of a shiny black car pulling up to the street parking outside the shop. My heart sinks, my instincts going on high alert. Something feels off, and I realize it’s because that car looks like a mobster’s ride.

“Nah, unfortunately this is the class with that weird lady who looks like Danny Devito’s cousin or something,” Rafaela is saying through the speakerphone. With a shaking hand, I quickly snatch up the phone and turn off the speaker, pressing the receiver to my face.

“Rafaela, um, I gotta go, babe. I-I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I manage to mumble, staring at the front door with my heart hammering away in my chest.

“Wait, what? What’s wrong? You sound weird. Is everything okay, Serena?”

“Uh, y-yeah. It’s fine. I’m fine. I just—I gotta go. Love you. Bye,” I reply quickly, ending the call before she can even respond. I glance down at the phone and shakily type in 9-1-1 before tucking the phone into my pocket. I want to have that number ready to go just in case things go sour. Of course, I realize with a sinking feeling, involving the police would probably only make the situation worse when it comes to the mafia. They’ve got cops on the take. I know what it’s like. I learned just enough from eavesdropping on my dad’s conversations years ago to know that I have to tread carefully here. One misstep, and I could lose everything. Hell, I could lose my life.

Just as expected, three skulking figures come through the front door a moment later, led by the same asshole who threatened me before: Lorenzo. And this time, there’s no attempt at disarming me with charm or subtlety. The three of them come marching toward me with glowering expressions. I look around quickly, wondering if there’s any way I can get out of this, any escape route I can take. But I know it’s pointless. These guys are smarter than they look, I’m sure, and they’re faster and stronger by far. No. The only thing I can do is stand my ground and take my beating.

I gulp back my fear and try not to let my eyes fill with tears as I face the wrath of the mob.

“Miss De Laurentis, you’ve been warned,” Lorenzo snarls, cornering me behind the counter just like he did the other day. This time, he doesn’t mince words. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough the last time we spoke, but you better cough up the money. Now. This isn’t a negotiation, sweetheart, this is a shakedown. Do you wanna fuckin’ die?”

“I-I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Business has been slow. I’m barely breaking even as it is.”

Lorenzo’s eyebrows perk upward and he glances back over his shoulder at the two goons behind him. “You hear that, boys? Hmm, sounds like an excuse to me. And a shitty one, too. Don’t you lie to me, you little bitch. We know what kinda money is sunk into this place. Your daddy bankrolled you good, didn’t he? You think you can hide that shit from us?”

“No, I swear. That money—it’s all run out. I’m not lying. If I-I had the money I would pay you, I promise. It’s just… it’s not there anymore,” I blurt out, feeling my whole body shake. Lorenzo glares at me so hard I wonder if he might be able to bore a hole in my face.

“Nice try,” he scoffs. “But the thing is, I don’t give a shit what your sob story is. Hard times, whatever. Everybody’s gotta pay the rent somehow, and if you’re not makin’ ends meet sellin’ soap to rich bitches, then it looks like you’re gonna have to make up the deficit some other way.”

He looks me up and down, stepping closer. The smell of his cheap cologne is so overbearing it almost makes my eyes water. I know what he’s implying, and that’s all it takes to send my thoughts hurtling back in time.

I’m shivering. It’s not even cold, but my body won’t stop convulsing. I feel sick to my stomach, but I know if I throw up they’ll just hurt me more. What am I going to do? How am I going to survive…?

“Listen, you spoiled little brat. I know Daddy’s not around to spank you anymore, but if you need someone else to step in and whip your sweet little ass into shape, I’m your man,” Lorenzo growls, the faint hint of a lascivious smile playing on his filthy lips.

Just then, there’s the jingle from the front door, and all four of us whip around at the sound to see another man in the doorway. My stomach does a somersault. It’s the guy from a few days ago! My mystery man. But what the hell is he doing here? I feel guilty instantly, knowing that now this man is in danger, too, because he’s unwittingly interrupted mafia business. He’s a witness now. And it’s all my fault. I want to call out to him, tell him to leave, but my voice is caught in my throat.

“Who’s this?” Lorenzo growls under his breath. Then, he shouts, “Who the fuck are you? Get out of here. This is private. Shop’s closed.”

The mystery guy pushes back the hood of his jacket to reveal a scruffy, handsome face with a coarse black beard, framed by long, gently curling black hair. There’s a wildness to his face that thrills me, even in the tense danger of the moment.

“Shit, that’s one of the Costa boys,” says one of Lorenzo’s goons.

Costa? My heart skips a beat. Another mafia guy. I should have known.

“Leave. Now. Before anyone has to get hurt,” commands the mystery guy. His voice is like crushed velvet, deep and rumbling. It thrums through my body down to my core, and I shiver.

Lorenzo lets out a cruel laugh. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Have us just walk outta here before we get a chance to break that pretty-boy face of yours. You think that beard can hide you? I know who the hell you are. And this is no business of yours. Get out.”

The Costa guy approaches slowly, shaking his head. “You really don’t wanna mess with me.”

All three of the others guffaw at his threat. “Right, sure, there are three of us and one of you. I’m sure we should all be scared right now, huh? You don’t fuckin’ scare me, man. But if you wanna go, we’ll go. No sweat off my back. In fact, my boys have been itchin’ for some target practice, right, boys?”

The two goons nod, grinning as they saunter toward Mystery Guy, squaring up for a fight.

“No,” I breathe, terrified. But within the next few seconds, a flash of violent movement breaks out right in front of me, as the two goons move to swing at my Mystery Guy.

To my surprise, he manages to dodge them both, and there’s a series of sickening crunches as his fist collides with one face and the other hand strikes a neck. They both swivel around, lumbering clumsily like two enraged bulls, only to be manhandled to the ground as Mystery Guy uses their own weight against him. He takes out a pistol, and with a flash of fluorescent light on silver metal, bashes them both upside the head. I scream at the sight of the gun, instinctively ducking down behind the counter. Lorenzo abandons me to take on the Mystery Guy, and even though I can’t see what’s going on, I can hear them.

“You wanna take me on, too?” growls Mystery Guy.

“You little fuckin’ bitch!” yelps Lorenzo. There is a brief tussle and then I hear the telltale slam of knuckles against jawbone, and there’s a stomach-turning cracking noise as Lorenzo cries out in agony. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit is getting real!

I hear the scramble of heavy, faltering footsteps and the jingle of the front door. Lorenzo sneers, “I’ll remember this, you Costa piece of shit! This is just the beginning, motherfucker. You’re gonna regret interfering with the Cleaners!”

“Yeah, you’ll remember me when I mail your teeth back to you, asshole!” shouts back Mystery Guy, and the door slams shut. I stay cowering behind the counter, my knees pulled to my chest, while my heart races along at a stammering rhythm.

I hear footsteps approaching and I steel myself for whatever harm is due to come my way. After all, three mafia guys may be gone, but there’s still one more left: Mystery Guy. He might hail from a different gang, but he’s still a dangerous man, and I have no reason to believe that he’s really here to help me. For all I know, that could have just been a tussle over territory, over who gets to terrorize me next.

So when Mystery Guy comes around behind the counter and offers me a hand to help me up, I hesitate for a long moment before taking it. I slowly look up at him to meet his gaze. I take in his dark clothing, the sleeves pushed to his elbows to reveal blood smeared along his hands and forearms, remnants of the battle. I stare at his face, that strangely familiar expression hidden behind a tangle of scraggly hair and beard. As soon as my eyes lock with his, it’s like I’m hypnotized. His eyes peer down into my very being, to stroke the depths of my wounded soul.

It’s almost overwhelming, that stare. Too much to take in.

But why? And how?

“I won’t hurt you,” he says softly, and that familiar thrum shakes through me. Stiffly, as though in a trance, I hold out my hand and take his. He pulls me to my feet, then places both hands on my shoulders, his eyes peering into my face with genuine concern.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you before I got here?” he asks. I manage to shake my head. I somehow tear my eyes away from his and notice that some of the blood on his hands and arms seems to be his own, and that he’s injured.

“I-I’m okay,” I murmur, “but you’re hurt.”

He takes his hands off of me and curls them into fists hanging at his sides. “No, I’m alright. It’s nothing at all. As long as you’re okay… I’ll go.”

As he turns to leave, some kind of strange impulse takes hold of my body and I reach out to stop him, my hands falling at his chest. He stops and looks down at me, eyes flashing. For a moment, I’m almost frightened by the wildness of that expression, but then he softens.

“Let me clean you up before you go, at least,” I offer, biting my lip. “I mean, you can’t go out all bloody and injured like that. It’s unsanitary. And if there’s one thing I do have here in abundance, it’s soap. Just let me clean your wounds. Please. It’s the least I can do.”

He hesitates, clearly fighting some kind of internal battle as he looks at me, considering my strange request. Finally, he gives in, and I gently lead him to a sink, pulling up a stool for him to sit on while I grab the least-feminine-scented soap I can find and start lathering up his fists and forearms. Even as he sits on the stool, he’s nearly eye-to-eye with me, he’s so tall. And I consider myself to be relatively tall for a woman, too, at five-foot-seven, so it’s unusual for a man to tower over me in such a way.

He doesn’t even wince at the sting of soap on his cut-up, bruised knuckles, and from the number of scars I feel underneath my fingers as I wash them, he seems to have seen his fair share of fights. I wonder what kind of life he leads, how many times he has done this. Is this his job? Really? To go around protecting women he doesn’t even know?

But Lorenzo and his goons called him a Costa guy. If he’s a mafia associate, then why did he help me? Sure, when I was young and Dad was still alive, things were good. My folks and the mafia were more than just simpatico, they were family. But things have changed drastically since then, and as far as I know, the Costa family certainly don’t make my safety and wellbeing a priority these days. I’m nothing to them. In fact, they probably hate me after everything that happened.

So why in the world did this rough-and-tough Costa enforcer come to my rescue?

As I make my way up his arm, scrubbing gently at the bloody lacerations and dark bruises, I come across a familiar sight. A tattoo. One I have not seen with my own two eyes in many years. The sight of it instantly throws me back, and a tidal wave of confused emotions overtake me. I freeze up, staring at the intricate lines of the tattoo, suddenly remembering all the things I have tried so hard to forget, dark things that time has buried.

And with it, an overwhelming sense of urgency to ask, to know for certain that this man is who my heart wills him to be. By chance, by fate, by magic. By whatever means necessary for him to have walked back into my world again, albeit beaten down and roughened up and subdued.

I look up from the tattoo to meet his gaze, and the answer to my question is there in his pale green eyes long before the words even leave my lips. It’s him. I know it is. But I still can’t stop myself from asking, just to be sure.

“Bruno? Is… is that you?”