Page 7 of Broken Honor

The café quiets once more. No customers for now. Just the soft hum of the radio.

I take off my apron and wander to the little window seat near the bookshelf. Curling my legs beneath me, I settle into the cushion and open my Bible. The pages are soft and familiar, my fingertips brushing the corner where I tucked a pressed flower last week.

I read slowly, tracing each word with my eyes, letting them rest in my heart.

A few minutes later, I feel the soft press of fingers on my chin.

I glance up.

Nonna stands over me, smiling so fondly that it makes my chest flutter.

“You’re blessed, piccola mia,” she says gently, brushing a loose curl from my face. “So very blessed.”

I smile, cheeks warm, heart full.

“I don’t feel blessed now,” I say softly, leaning into Nonna’s touch. “I just feel happy.”

She smiles, her eyes warm. “Happiness is a blessing, piccola mia.”

I nod, hugging my Bible to my chest. The scent of sugar and old paper clings to the pages. Everything feels peaceful—soft, simple, good.

The golden light in the café is starting to fade as evening stretches across the street outside. The shadows climb slowly across the floor, the lace curtains fluttering faintly with the breeze from the open window.

Nonna glances at the clock and unties her apron, wiping her hands on a folded cloth.

“I should go before it gets too dark. Mass will be starting soon.”

I straighten in my seat. “I can lock up. You always say I’m old enough now.”

She pauses, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the counter. “I don’t like leaving you alone at night. Not even for a little while.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, standing up and smoothing my dress. “I’ve locked up before.”

Nonna hesitates, watching me for a moment. Her eyes scan the café as if trying to see something I’ve missed. Then, slowly, she sighs.

“Keep the door bolted after you close, capito? Don’t answer for anyone.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

She walks over and kisses my cheek. “Go straight home okay?”

I nod, watching as she gathers her shawl and steps out into the dusky street. The little bell over the door chimes behind her, and then she’s gone—her silhouette fading between the last bits of sunlight and shadow.

The café feels quieter without her.

I begin moving slowly through the space, wiping down the tables one by one. The chairs creak as I lift and flip them upside down onto the tabletops. I hum a little under my breath—nothing in particular, just the tune that had been playing on the radio earlier.

I’m halfway through straightening the napkin holders when the bell above the door rings again.

I glance toward the entrance without thinking, a smile already forming. “I’m so sorry, sir, we’re—”

My voice stops mid-sentence.

My smile vanishes.

A man stumbles into the doorway, shoulders lurching forward like he’s about to fall. One arm clutches the frame, fingers slipping against the glass.

The first thing I see is the blood.

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