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Aurora

I exit of the café later than usual today. The evening rush had turned into a full crowd, and after Anna and Max clocked out at 5, it was just me juggling donuts, brewing coffee and managing the cleanups. The street outside is dark now, quiet except for a faint hum of far-off traffic. The air is cold as I put the lock in the café’s door and I start walking.

I’ve already texted Sophia to let her know I’ll be late. Her reply was soft and understanding “It’s totally fine. Come when you can. I’ll wait for you.” Along with a heart emoji.

I tuck the keys and my phone in my bag and begin walking toward her house. Sofia belongs to an aristocrat family. Her family owns stables, and they are into horse racing and stuffs. The night air is cool, brushing against my skin, and for a moment, I think the worst of the day is over.

Until I hear it.

A loud Bang.

The sharp crack of a gunshot cuts through the silence streets of the deserted lane.

I freeze, my breath caught in my throat.

Then the revving of engines of bikes. Fast. Loud. Disappearing down the street like a pack of wolves scattering in the dark evening.

Up ahead, a group of men dissolves into the night shadows. I squint and see one figure, still on the ground.

Lying there.

Alone.

My heart starts racing. I don’t think. I just run.

“Are you okay?” I ask as I drop to my knees beside him.

He groans, clutching his side. I flick on my phone’s flashlight and hover it over him. He’s been shot, low in the ribs. Blood stains the hem of his black leather jacket making it stickier.

“I should call an ambulance,” I whisper.

“No.” His voice is tight with pain, but it stops me. It’s... familiar.

He turns his head slightly. Even under the dim light, I recognize his face.

It’s him.

The man from the café.

The boss.

“What—what are you doing here?” I whisper my voice barely out.

He winces in pain. “No time. Just remove the bullet.” He orders while gasping.

I stare at him. “Are you insane?” My brows stitch together.

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me like he’s already decided I will do it. Hell no.

And without letting myself think, I grab my handbag. I always carry a knife for safety. Tonight, it becomes something else. I search for it and take it out. He gazes at it with appreciation.

The old instincts kick in. The ones I hate.

I slice through the fabric, find the wound, steady my shaking hands, and remove the bullet with quick, practiced precision. I don’t ask how I still remember. I just do, because I used to be a pro at doing this back then.

I grab the scarf from my bag—its light, cotton fabric and it is barely enough, but it’ll do. I press it hard against his wound and tie it tight around him to avoid the blood from flowing more.

His face is pale, but focused. “My people are on their way,” he mutters while breathing hard.

I nod breathless. “You’ll be okay.” I assure him.

I rise to my feet with my hands covered in blood. “I have to go.” I say.

He doesn’t stop me.

I turn and run into the night, my feet pounding the pavement, heart slamming against my ribs.

I don’t know if I just saved a mafia man.

I don’t know if he knows who I am now.

But I do know this: whatever line I was walking before, it’s gone.

And I just crossed into something I might not be able to walk back from.

By the time I reach Sophia’s house, my legs are shaking and my hands are still faintly stained with blood. I wiped them on a napkin I found in my bag, but it didn’t do much. The image of him and with his eyes on me, that bullet wound, it won’t leave me easily.

I knock once… twice. The door swings open almost instantly.

“There you are!” Sophia says with a bright smile that fades the moment she sees my face. “Hey… are you okay?”

“I—yeah. Just a rough evening. Sorry I’m late.” I am panthing.

She steps aside without pushing. “Come in. I just finished making dinner.”

The warmth of her home wraps around me like a blanket I don’t deserve. The delicious scent of roasted vegetables and pasta fills the air. Her small dog trots over to sniff my shoes, then trots away unimpressed.

I kick off my shoes and walk to the kitchen table where two plates are already set. She pours me a glass of water.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks gently, handing it to me.

I nod. “Just tired. Had to close alone. Got caught in a little… commotion on the way here.”

Her brows lift. “Commotion?”

“Some bikers, some shouting. Nothing serious.” I look at her with a slight smile.

A lie.

Sophia watches me for another second, then smiles lightly and pulls out her chair. “You look like you’ve run a marathon.”

I laugh weakly and sit down.

Dinner is quiet, gentle. She talks about work, someone from town planning a small fair next weekend, and how Giovanni sent a funny voice note earlier about burning pasta again. He doesn’t know how to cook. I let her words wash over me.

But all the while, my mind is spinning back and forth.

Who shot him? Why was he alone? Did he follow me or was it a coincidence?

And most of all, why didn’t I walk away? Why did I help him?

After dinner, Sofia insists on making tea. I excuse myself to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror.

There’s a smudge of dried blood on my wrist.

I scrub it off like it’s poison and washes it instantly.

Like it’s proof of the life I left behind and also the one that might be creeping back.