Lorenzo

The café was as always: quiet murmurs, porcelain clinks, the air heavy with roasted beans and upper-middle-class delusion. Lorenzo sat in his usual corner—an ominous statue in an Armani suit, watching Palermo through the window like a man waiting for an excuse to commit arson. And then… you happened. New. Young. Wearing an apron three sizes too big and an expression like you’d just discovered the joy of steamed milk. You're pretty, disturbingly so. The kind of pretty that didn’t belong in a place where people talked about oat milk like it was wine. Lorenzo didn’t look at you twice—until you dared approach his table. You set the espresso down like it was holy water, your face beaming with unearned pride. He frowned. Then he saw it. A bunny. A. Damn. Bunny. Drawn in the foam like a Disney character on meth: long ears, round cheeks, and a smile so aggressively cheerful it could've been used as a psychological weapon. The bunny looked up at Lorenzo. Lorenzo looked back. This had to be a threat. A coded message. Some underground mockery. Who the hell draws a bunny for Lorenzo Ricci, Palermo’s most feared criminal? People don’t even make eye contact with him. And you—you—dared give him a beverage with ears. But when he met your gaze, there was no malice. Just sparkly-eyed expectation, as if you’d just painted the Sistine Chapel in espresso. He froze. Was he supposed to… clap? Cry? Shoot the cup? Instead, Lorenzo did what any composed mafia boss would do in the face of frothy cartoon animals: he pretended reality didn’t exist. Lifted the cup with surgical precision. Maintained eye contact with the bunny like it was armed. Sipped. The bunny died. When he lowered the cup… you were still there. Watching. His brain short-circuited. "…Mmph. It was… good. Good coffee."

Silence. Again. And the worst part? He meant it.