Elena Russo didn't remember falling asleep. She remembered lying in bed, her body locked in tension, eyes wide open as shadows shifted across her ceiling. Every creak of the building made her pulse spike. Every horn from the street below felt like an alarm. And through it all, one voice lingered in her mind, velvet and cold:
You're mine now.
When morning finally came, sunlight slashed through her blinds, but it didn't ease the tightness in her chest. Her alarm buzzed, dragging her upright. Her limbs felt heavy, her head aching from too many restless hours. She forced herself into motion: splash cold water on her face, brush her teeth, pull on black jeans and a soft gray sweater. She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, hoping to see something normal. But her eyes betrayed her—dark-rimmed, haunted, full of fear she couldn't swallow.
"You're fine," she whispered, gripping the sink until her knuckles whitened. "He let you go. He won't come back."
But she didn't believe it.
By the time she left her apartment, the city had already come alive. People bustled along the sidewalks, horns blared, street vendors shouted. Life moved forward like nothing had happened. Elena walked quickly, hood pulled up against the chill. Every corner felt like a trap. Every black car that slowed made her heart hammer. But she forced herself onward. Work. Coffee. Routine. Pretend nothing's wrong.
The bell above the café door jingled as she stepped inside. The familiar warmth wrapped around her: the hiss of steaming milk, the clatter of cups, the soft hum of jazz from the radio. Her coworkers greeted her with tired smiles and playful complaints about her lateness, and she smiled back, weak but convincing. She tied on her apron and dove into the rhythm—serving tables, pulling shots of espresso, wiping counters. Busy. Distracted. Safe.
For a few hours, she almost believed it.
Until she looked up.
Her body went cold. He was there.
The Don sat in the corner booth, sunlight cutting across his face. No suit this time—just a dark shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked almost casual. Almost. But nothing about him softened. He radiated the same quiet authority, the same lethal calm, as he had in the alley. He stirred his coffee slowly, eyes never leaving her.
Elena's fingers went slack around the cup she held. Porcelain rattled against the saucer. She quickly set it down before she dropped it. Her breath came short, her throat tight. No. Not here. Not him.
"Elena, table three!" her coworker called, snapping her back.
She forced herself into motion, tray balanced in her trembling hands. She served the couple at table three with a plastered-on smile, all the while aware of his presence pressing against her like smoke filling the room. He didn't belong here, in her safe place, yet he commanded it without a word.
Minutes dragged like hours before he finally moved.
"Elena."
Her name rolled off his tongue like a secret he'd been savoring. Smooth. Unshakable. Her pulse leapt. She turned slowly, every instinct screaming to ignore him, but she couldn't. His eyes locked on hers, sharp and merciless.
"You remember me," he said. Not a question. A fact.
Her throat went dry. Customers chattered around them, oblivious. Normal life continued, fragile and blind. Elena clung to it. "I—I don't know who you are."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, more like amusement. "Liar."
Her grip on the tray tightened until her fingers ached. "Please," she whispered. "Just leave me alone."
Instead, he rose.
The café seemed to shrink as he crossed the floor, every step deliberate, silent, inevitable. Conversations faltered. A couple of customers turned their heads. His presence warped the air. He stopped just inches from her, towering over her, the faint spice of his cologne cutting through the smell of coffee.
"You saw me last night," he murmured, his voice low enough for only her. "You know what happens to people who see me?"
Her chest constricted. "Y-you said—"
"I said you were mine."
Her knees nearly buckled. He reached out, brushing the tray from her grip, setting it aside as if it weighed nothing. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Don't pretend you can hide from me, Elena. I see you now. Everywhere."
Her eyes stung. "Why me?" The words slipped out, fragile, desperate.
For a moment, his gaze softened—no, not softened, shifted. Something unreadable flickered there. He studied her, like she was a puzzle he intended to solve. "Because you ran," he said finally. "And no one runs from me."
The bell above the door jingled. He straightened, slipping away without ceremony. Conversations cautiously resumed, though eyes lingered on Elena. Her coworkers whispered, curiosity painted across their faces.
One nudged her. "Who was that? He looked… dangerous."
Elena forced a brittle laugh. "Just… someone I served once."
But her hands still trembled, her chest still burned, and she knew the lie was paper-thin.
Her shift dragged like an eternity. When it ended, the streets outside felt sharper, more hostile. Every shadow made her flinch. Every man in a dark jacket looked like him. She walked fast, clutching her bag tight, muttering prayers under her breath. Home was her only sanctuary.
Her apartment was small but hers—fifth floor, peeling paint, creaky stairs. She double-locked the door. Checked the windows. Drew the blinds. She dropped her bag and collapsed onto the couch, hugging a pillow tight to her chest.
For a moment, silence. Her breath slowed. Her muscles loosened.
Then her phone buzzed.
She frowned, pulling it from her pocket. An unknown number flashed on the screen. Her thumb hovered, hesitation coiling in her stomach. Curiosity won. She answered. "Hello?"
Silence.
Her heart pounded. "Who is this?"
Then: "You locked your door twice. Smart."
Her blood froze. "How do you—"
"I told you," the voice purred, smooth and intimate. "I don't forget."
Her breath rasped, shallow. "Where are you?"
The faintest chuckle slid through the line. "Close enough." A pause, then softer: "Sleep well, Elena."
The call ended with a click.
Her phone slipped from her hands, clattering against the floor. She clutched the pillow tighter, eyes darting to the blinds, the door, the corners of the room. She couldn't see him. But she felt him. In the air. In her skin. Watching. Waiting.
Elena curled tighter on the couch, whispering into the silence. "Please… just leave me alone."
But in her heart, she knew.
The Don didn't let go.
He claimed.