The Mafia Man Wants My Heart

The moment I stepped off the train and into the cool Chicago air, a shiver ran down my spine. The city was alive-too alive. Streetlights flickered in the fading evening light, illuminating the busy sidewalks where businessmen hurried past, laughter spilled from a nearby bar, and the faint scent of roasted chestnuts lingered in the air. Yet, beneath the surface, something felt... off. I pulled my coat tighter around me and shifted my overnight bag higher onto my shoulder. I wasn't here for sightseeing.

I was here because my mother, Emily Cruz, practically forced me to attend a book club event in her place. The thought made me sigh. "Mia, it's important to keep connections alive," she had said. "You never know when you'll need them." As the owner of Cruz's Bookstore-one of New Orleans' oldest independent bookstores-my mother was obsessed with building literary networks. I, on the other hand, had no such ambitions. I just wanted to survive the night and catch my flight home in the morning. The bed and breakfast where I was staying was tucked into a quieter part of town, away from the bustling nightlife. When I arrived, the dimly lit street was unsettlingly still. No traffic, no pedestrians-just the eerie hum of a flickering streetlamp overhead. I pushed open the old wooden door and stepped inside. The scent of rosewater and aged wood greeted me. Behind the front desk sat an elderly woman with silver curls pinned neatly atop her head. Her sharp blue eyes studied me over the rim of her glasses. "You must be Miss Cruz," she said with a knowing smile. I nodded, handing over my ID. She slid a key across the counter. "Room 3. Breakfast is served at seven, if you're up early enough. And... lock your windows." That last part made me pause. "Excuse me?" Her expression remained pleasant, but there was a warning beneath it. "Some folks don't respect boundaries in this city." A chill ran through me. "Right. Thanks." Taking the key, I made my way down the narrow hallway to my room. The old wooden floor creaked beneath my boots. My door was at the very end of the hall, next to a dusty painting of a woman in Victorian clothing. Her painted eyes followed me as I unlocked the door. Inside, the room was small but cozy. The faded yellow walls gave it an aged charm, and the scent of rosewater was stronger here. A ceiling fan hummed softly overhead, its blades slightly loose, creating an almost rhythmic tap... tap... tap. I set my bag down and walked toward the window. The moment I pulled back the curtain, a gust of cold wind slipped through a slight gap in the glass. The window latch was broken. I frowned. Did the old woman forget to mention that? I glanced outside. Nothing but empty trees swaying against the darkening sky. No streetlights. No signs of life. Just an unsettling, endless stretch of black. Shaking off the unease, I turned back to my phone. One hour until the book club meeting. Enough time for coffee. The streets were livelier as I walked toward a small café a few blocks from the meeting venue. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air as I stepped inside. The place had an old-fashioned charm-wooden counters, framed black-and-white photos on the walls, and a family tree chart hanging near the entrance. I ordered a black coffee with extra milk and sugar, then found a seat by the window. The street outside was busier now, people weaving in and out of shops, couples laughing, a street musician strumming a slow melody on his guitar. Yet, as I stirred my drink, I felt it again. That creeping sensation of being watched. I casually glanced around. The café was calm-baristas chatting behind the counter, customers absorbed in their books or laptops. No one was paying attention to me. And yet... My gaze drifted outside. Among the moving crowd, one figure stood still. A man. Dressed in black, leaning against a lamppost across the street. His face was obscured by the shadows, but something about the way he stood-composed, calculating-made my stomach tighten. Then, just as suddenly as I noticed him, he disappeared.

A passing bus blocked my view for barely a second, and when it was gone, so was he. I swallowed hard and turned back to my coffee. It's nothing. Just your imagination. But deep down, I wasn't convinced. The book club was hosted at a small event hall lined with posters of famous authors and upcoming literary festivals. A crowd of about twenty people gathered, chatting excitedly over wine and hors d'oeuvres. I kept to myself, listening more than speaking. When my turn for introductions came, I cleared my throat. "Um, my name is Mia Cruz. I'm here on behalf of my mother, Emily Cruz. She owns Cruz's Bookstore in New Orleans."

A few people murmured in recognition. One woman, a redhead in her forties, smiled at me. "Your mother is wonderful. I used to visit her shop years ago." I nodded politely, but my mind was elsewhere. I still felt watched. But that was ridiculous, right? The meeting continued with discussions about historical fiction, new book releases, and publishing trends. I tried to focus, but the nagging unease wouldn't leave. When the meeting finally ended, I was the first to slip out the door. I hailed a cab, keeping my head down, avoiding unnecessary glances. The night air felt heavier, charged with something unspoken, but I pushed the paranoia away. It was just my mind playing tricks on me. Big cities had that effect-their energy lingering long after you stepped away from the crowds. By the time I reached the bed and breakfast, my nerves had settled-just paranoia, nothing more. I forced myself to breathe normally as I stepped inside, nodding briefly to the old woman at the desk. She gave me a small, knowing smile, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "You locked your window, didn't you?" she asked.

The question threw me off. I hesitated before nodding. "Yeah. It was already shut when I checked." Her smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her expression. "Good." I swallowed hard and turned away before I could dwell on it. The hallway felt eerily silent as I walked to my room. Each step creaked against the old wooden floor, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and something else-something musty, like forgotten corners of an attic. The moment I entered my room, I locked the door and double-checked the window. Still broken, but at least shut. I stood there for a moment, staring at the glass. Outside, the trees swayed, their branches shifting in the dim light.

There was nothing unusual-no strange figures, no movement beyond the wind's restless push. Still, unease curled in my stomach. Shaking my head, I peeled off my coat, grabbed my pajamas, and stepped into the small bathroom. The old pipes groaned as I turned the faucet, hot water rushing from the showerhead in lazy streams. I stood beneath the heat, letting the tension slip from my body. My mother would probably call in the morning to ask how the meeting went. I'd tell her it was fine, that I met some of her old friends, that I survived. I wouldn't mention the feeling of being watched. Because it was nothing. It had to be. By the time I curled into bed, exhaustion dragged me under almost instantly. Then- A noise. A soft rustling outside the window. I blinked awake, heart hammering.

The wind? An animal? Holding my breath, I listened. Silence. Maybe I imagined it. The sheets felt warm, comforting, but the air in the room had changed. It felt... charged. Like the moment before a storm, thick with something unspoken. I turned over and pulled the blankets tighter. Then- Another sound. Faint, deliberate. A slow drag of something against the windowpane. Not the wind. Not an animal. A breath hitched in my throat. I forced myself to stay still, to keep my breathing steady. My fingers curled around the blanket, knuckles tight. Don't look. But I couldn't help it. Slowly, I shifted onto my back, eyes trailing toward the window. The darkness outside pressed against the glass like a living thing, thick and impenetrable. Nothing there. And yet... A shadow moved. It was barely noticeable, a shift in the blackness, but I saw it. A flicker of motion, too smooth to be the wind. A shape-tall, unmoving. Watching. My pulse pounded in my ears. My breath felt too loud. Then- A light flickered from somewhere outside, and for the briefest moment, it illuminated the figure. A man. Standing just beyond the glass. His face obscured, his presence unnatural in the way it blended with the darkness. And then- He was gone.

A gust of wind rattled the broken latch, making the window shift slightly. I bolted upright, heart slamming into my ribs. Was he ever really there? I stared at the glass for what felt like forever, the sound of my own breathing filling the silence. Finally, I reached for my phone, fingers trembling. I turned on the flashlight, aiming it toward the window. Nothing. Just the swaying trees. I let out a shaky breath. Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe the city had just unsettled me, made me see things that weren't there. Still, I didn't sleep for the rest of the night. Because real or not- I knew what I saw.

The sharp sound of shattering glass jolted me awake. My heart slammed against my ribcage, a frantic rhythm that echoed in my ears as I jolted upright. The once quiet room was now thick with an unsettling stillness, the kind that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Shadows stretched across the walls, shifting with the faint flicker of the streetlights filtering through the partially drawn curtains. Each breath I took was uneven, shuddering past my lips as my chest rose and fell in rapid succession.

Disoriented, my mind struggled to piece together the moments leading up to this instant-what had disturbed my sleep? A noise? A presence? Or just the lingering tendrils of an anxious dream? I swallowed hard, willing myself to steady the erratic pounding in my chest, but a gnawing sense of unease curled deep in my stomach. Something wasn't right. The broken window. The realization sent a shiver down my spine. Had the wind knocked it loose? Or- A groan. Low, pained. Not from me. My head snapped toward the source. A figure loomed in the darkness, half-slumped against the wall near the shattered window. The dim light revealed the broad shape of a man, his breathing ragged. His dark clothes were torn, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw the faint glisten of something wet on his arm. Blood. I barely had time to react before he moved-too fast despite his injury. A powerful, unyielding hand clamped over my mouth, smothering the terrified scream that had barely begun to rise in my throat. Panic surged through me like a violent current, my body reacting on pure instinct. I thrashed wildly, my legs kicking out in a desperate attempt to break free, my fingernails digging into the rough skin of his wrist. But his grip was immovable-unyielding like steel shackles locking me in place. His presence was overwhelming, a solid mass of strength pressing against me, trapping me in a suffocating hold. The scent of him-faintly metallic, with a trace of something musky and unfamiliar-invaded my senses, making my stomach churn. My pulse pounded relentlessly, the blood roaring in my ears as fear seized every muscle in my body. "Relax," a deep voice rasped against my ear, the warmth of his breath brushing over my skin in a way that sent a violent shudder down my spine. His tone was firm yet laced with something strained, something almost... weary. As if holding me like this was taking just as much out of him as it was out of me. I didn't relax. I couldn't. Every instinct screamed at me to fight, to scream, to do something-anything-to get away. But his grip only tightened in silent warning. "I won't hurt you." The words were low, deliberate. A promise or a lie-I couldn't tell. I didn't believe him. My body went rigid, every muscle locking up as raw terror coiled in my gut. My mind raced, grasping for an escape, for some way out of this nightmare. He let out a slow, measured breath. "Promise me you won't scream if I let you go." I hesitated. He wasn't out of breath. He wasn't struggling to restrain me. He was hurt. The realization cut through my panic, forcing me to think beyond my fear. I swallowed hard, my throat constricting as I forced myself to meet his gaze-what little I could see of it in the dim lighting. Dark, unreadable eyes bored into mine, waiting. Expecting. I gave a frantic nod. Slowly, his hand loosened. The moment I was free, I scrambled backward, pressing myself against the headboard. My fingers fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, but before I could grab it, he took a step closer. "Don't," he warned. His posture wasn't aggressive, but there was an undeniable weight to his presence, something dangerous humming beneath his exhaustion. "Who the hell are you?" My voice shook despite my effort to steady it. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he swayed slightly, his body betraying his weakness. He clutched his arm, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose. "I'm sorry for breaking in," he finally muttered. "I just needed a place to hide." "Hide?" My skin prickled. "From who?" A humorless smirk touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "From worse people than me." I swallowed hard, my grip tightening around the edge of the blanket. His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of whatever he had escaped pressing down on him. "I won't touch you. I just..." He swayed again, his strength waning. "Just needed a place to breathe." Before I could process his words, he groaned and collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the floor. Instinct battled logic. He was injured. Clearly struggling. But he was also a stranger who had just broken into my room. I should have called for help. Should have run. But instead- "Are you hurt?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. His head lolled slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet mine. There was surprise in them, as if he hadn't expected kindness. As if the concept was foreign to him. He nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Yeah... got stabbed." The air between us grew heavier. Fear still gripped me, my instincts screaming at me to run, to call for help. But something in his voice-his exhaustion, his pain-made me hesitate. He was injured. Vulnerable. A part of me wished I could ignore it, pretend he wasn't sitting there bleeding into my carpet. But I couldn't. "Wait here." My legs were shaky as I climbed out of bed, keeping my eyes on him as I moved toward the door. My body was still tense, every nerve on high alert, but he made no move to stop me. The hallway was dim, the only light coming from a flickering bulb near the stairwell. Mounted on the wall was a small emergency first aid kit. I fumbled with the latch, nearly dropping it in my rush. By the time I returned, he was in the same spot, his back resting against the wall, his breathing slow but uneven. His jaw was tight, his fingers curled near his side, as if he were fighting to stay conscious. I slid the kit toward him, keeping a cautious distance. He exhaled sharply, the faintest trace of relief crossing his face as he reached for it. His fingers were unsteady, and when he tried to peel back the fabric of his torn sleeve, a sharp hiss escaped him. Guilt pricked at me. He was hurt, and here I was, treating him like a criminal. Even if that's exactly what he might be. "Let me help," I muttered, inching closer. His dark eyes met mine, searching, measuring. Then, after a beat, he gave a small nod. I knelt beside him, flipping open the kit and switching on my phone's flashlight. The wound on his arm was ugly-an angry, deep gash that had already soaked through his shirt. Blood streaked his skin, dark and glistening in the dim light. "This is going to sting," I warned. He huffed a dry laugh. "Not my first wound, sweetheart." I ignored the nickname and focused on the task at hand. Carefully, I dabbed at the wound with an antiseptic wipe. He barely flinched, but I caught the slight twitch of his jaw, the way his muscles tensed beneath my touch. "You're lucky," I muttered, pressing a little harder than necessary. "This could've been a lot worse." His lips quirked slightly, though there was no real humor in his expression. "You have no idea." I didn't ask. As I worked, the silence between us stretched, thick with unspoken questions. Who was he? Why was he here? What had he done to get stabbed? I wasn't sure I wanted the answers. "So," I said, needing something to break the tension. "Mugged in a dark alley?" His smirk was faint, barely there. "Something like that." I could tell he wasn't going to elaborate. After securing the bandage around his arm, I sat back on my heels, watching him carefully. His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. "You need stitches," I murmured. He sighed, resting his head against the wall. "I'll survive." The words were so casual, so certain, as if he had been through worse. As if pain was just another part of his life. A strange silence settled over us. I knew I should still be afraid. Should be yelling for help, demanding answers, doing anything other than sitting here, helping a stranger who had broken into my room. And yet... "What happens now?" I finally asked. He glanced at me, his gaze unreadable. "I just need a few hours. I won't take your bed. Just let me rest here." My instincts screamed at me to say no. But there was something about him-the way he sat there, worn down yet still composed, injured yet still exuding a quiet strength-that made me hesitate. I should have told him to leave. Should have been smarter. But instead- "Fine," I muttered. "But if you try anything-" His smirk returned, just a flicker of amusement in his tired eyes. "You'll stab me?" "Exactly." For the first time, the tension in the room eased. Just a little. I climbed back into bed, keeping my phone gripped in my hand. Sleep didn't come easy. Every few minutes, I cracked one eye open, half-expecting him to make a move. But he didn't. He stayed slumped against the wall, his breathing deep and steady, his body finally giving in to exhaustion. And when the first rays of dawn peeked through the broken window- He was gone.

I jolted awake, a shudder ripping through me before I could fully process why. The room was dark, but something felt... off. My breath came in uneven gasps as I scanned my surroundings, my mind still groggy with sleep. The bed beneath me was slightly rumpled, the blankets twisted from restless tossing. But that wasn't what sent ice trickling down my spine. The silence. It was too still. I turned my head toward the spot where he had been slumped against the wall. Empty. My pulse kicked up. I scrambled upright, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor as I stumbled toward the window.

It was slightly ajar, the cracked pane allowing a thin breeze to snake through. I pressed my fingertips to the glass. Still cool. He was gone. A part of me had expected this, but now that it was real, I felt an odd mix of relief and unease. He had been injured-badly. And yet, he had vanished into the night like a phantom, leaving nothing behind except a smear of dried blood on the floorboards. I swallowed hard, my fingers curling against my arms as I hugged myself. The room felt different now, as if his presence had shifted something I couldn't quite name. I should be glad. I should be grateful he was gone, that I wasn't waking up to danger looming over me. But instead, all I could do was stand there, staring at the open window, haunted by the feeling that this wasn't the end. That somehow, despite every ounce of logic screaming otherwise- I hadn't seen the last of him. I forced myself to move, shaking off the lingering dread clinging to my skin. My body ached, exhaustion still weighing me down, but I needed a shower. The bathroom was small, just a narrow space with a sink, a toilet, and an old clawfoot tub with a showerhead mounted above it. I twisted the faucet, waiting as the pipes groaned before releasing a steady stream of hot water. Steam curled around me as I peeled off my clothes, shivering despite the warmth. Stepping under the spray, I let the water cascade over me, washing away the tension knotting my muscles. The heat seeped into my skin, loosening the stiffness in my shoulders. I pressed my palms against the cool tiles, exhaling slowly. Last night replayed in my mind-the way he had appeared out of nowhere, bleeding and barely conscious. The way I had helped him, despite every ounce of common sense telling me not to. I ran a hand down my face. What was I thinking? He could've killed me. And yet, I hadn't felt fear-not exactly. Wariness, yes. Uncertainty. But there had been something else too, something unsettling. I shut off the water and reached for a towel, wrapping it tightly around myself. The mirror was fogged over, my reflection a hazy blur. Wiping my hand across the glass, I met my own eyes. Tired. Unsteady. A little lost. I turned away and got dressed, pulling on fresh clothes before stepping back into the bedroom. The open window drew my attention again, a sharp reminder of last night's chaos. I needed to get it fixed. Grabbing my phone, I searched for a repair service, my fingers unsteady as I dialed the number. The call rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "Yeah?" "Hi, I need someone to repair a broken window. It's urgent." "Address?" I rattled it off, chewing the inside of my cheek. "Someone will be there in an hour." The line went dead. I lowered the phone, exhaling. An hour. That was enough time to push last night aside, to pretend this was just a normal morning. But deep down, I knew- Nothing about this was normal anymore. I dragged a hand through my damp hair, shaking off the last remnants of unease. The clock on the nightstand read 7:42 AM-too early to dwell on the what-ifs circling in my head. I needed something normal, something routine. Breakfast. Padding over to the tiny kitchenette in the corner of the room, I opened the mini fridge, scanning its limited contents. A carton of eggs, half a loaf of bread, a stick of butter, and some orange juice. Simple, but it would do. I set a pan on the stovetop, letting the butter melt as I cracked two eggs into it. The quiet sizzle filled the space, a comforting sound against the weight of last night. Toast went into the small pop-up toaster, and as I stood there, flipping the eggs, I focused on the rhythmic motions-the scrape of the spatula, the soft pop of the toast, the citrusy scent of fresh orange juice filling the air. For a few minutes, it felt normal. I sat at the small wooden table by the window, cutting into my eggs, chewing slowly as I tried to convince myself that today would be just another day. No strange men bleeding out in my room. No lingering paranoia. Just me, my breakfast, and the sound of the city waking up beyond the glass. Then- A sharp knock at the door. I set my fork down, swallowing the bite I'd just taken. The repairman. Right on time. Rising from my seat, I wiped my hands on a napkin and made my way to the door. Through the peephole, I saw a man in his late fifties, dressed in a navy-blue work jacket with a toolbox in one hand. His expression was neutral, bored even, like this was just another job on his list. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. "You called for a window repair?" His voice was gruff, businesslike. I nodded. "Yeah, it's in the bedroom. This way." He followed me inside, his boots thudding against the wooden floor as I led him to the damaged window. He let out a low whistle. "That's a nasty break. What happened?" I hesitated. "Someone threw something at it." It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. He didn't press. Instead, he knelt down, inspecting the cracks along the pane. "Glass is loose. You're lucky it didn't shatter completely. I'll have to replace the whole thing." "How long will it take?" "Shouldn't be more than an hour." He set his toolbox down with a heavy clunk. "I'll get started." I nodded and stepped back, watching as he began removing the broken glass with practiced efficiency. As the repairman worked, the rhythmic sound of tools scraping against the window frame filled the room, but my attention kept drifting elsewhere. My gaze lingered on the space near the wall-the very spot where he had sat, his body heavy with exhaustion, his dark eyes watching me with an unreadable expression. The bed was neatly made, the blankets undisturbed, yet I could still picture him there. The faint imprint of his presence lingered in the air like a ghost of the night before, refusing to fade with the morning light. It was unsettling how quickly reality had shifted. Hours ago, he had been here-breathing, bleeding, alive. Now, there was nothing but silence, as if he had never existed at all. And yet, I could still feel him. A whisper of warmth where he had been. A phantom weight in the space he had occupied. His presence. The repairman straightened with a satisfied nod, wiping his hands on a rag. "That should hold up just fine," he said, stepping back to inspect his work. "Replaced the glass, reinforced the frame. If you ever need more repairs, just give me a call." I forced a small smile, reaching for my purse. "Thank you. How much do I owe you?" He rattled off the price, and I handed him the cash, my fingers slightly unsteady. As he counted the bills, I caught myself glancing at the newly fixed window. The jagged edges of broken glass were gone, but I could still picture the way they had gleamed under the moonlight when I first saw the damage. The repairman tucked the money into his pocket and gathered his tools. "You take care now, miss." I nodded. "You too." With that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him. Alone again, I exhaled slowly, rubbing my arms as I turned back to the empty space in the room. The logical part of me knew that the stranger from last night was long gone. And yet... I still couldn't shake the feeling that some part of him had never left. Back to New Orleans