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Alessia

The rising sun spills over the cityscape, bathing the streets in a stunning yet deceiving golden glow. The beauty of the still air belies the darkness lurking in the underbelly of this concrete jungle. Jiggling the door just until I hear the familiar click, I unlock the frosted glass door to La Dolce Vita, my little slice of heaven tucked into the chaos.

The pastel yellow and pink exterior stands out amongst the gray highrises, window boxes overflowing with bursts of crimson and violet. It's been referred to as Instagram-worthy in a plethora of Yelp reviews and Eater articles—not that I personally care about that type of thing very much, although it's fantastic for business.

The aroma of freshly baked cornetti and rich espresso envelops me as I step inside. Not many people get to work in a place that smells this divine. I wave to my lead baker, Ernesto, who has been here since well before the crack of dawn, preparing pastries and confections that will delight customers well into the afternoon. He's a loyal employee, here since it opened, having trained in the same Italian town my family is from. It was nice to be able to give him an opportunity in this part of the world, much like my family received when they moved here decades ago.

Vintage café chairs, painstakingly picked out at countless estate sales and swap meets, sit clustered around metal and wooden tables topped with sugar bowls and miniature vases of vibrant wildflowers. Before long, my baristas shuffle into the café and immediately get to work, and the hiss and gurgle of the espresso machine provides a steady backbeat to the hushed conversations of the few early bird customers. I don't recognize them, but the large backpacks they both wear, and the hoodies emblazoned with the nearby college's sports team logo, are a giveaway they're kicking off their school year.

I tie on my apron, the familiar motions grounding me as I prepare for the day ahead. The oven timer dings in the back, and I help Ernesto to pull out trays of golden, flaky croissants. My heart swells looking around my cozy café. La Dolce Vita isn't much, just a tiny storefront café, but it's mine. A place for comfort, for community, for a little taste of dolce vita in the midst of the churning city. Is this the American Dream that my parents left the old country for, and am I fulfilling their every hope and dream for me? Probably not. I'm sure a café isn't the type of future they envisioned for me. But, at the same time, I'm happy with this little slice of paradise. I bring people joy in their otherwise mundane, chaotic days, after all.

As I top off cups with foamed milk, laughter lines crinkling my eyes, the TV above the counter flickers with a breaking news report on a mob slaying just a few blocks away. A chill runs down my spine, the bubble of my happy place pierced by the creeping fear that has followed my family for generations. Resistant to having a TV in this little sanctuary in the first place, I finally caved in when customers told me it made them feel safer knowing what was taking place on the surrounding blocks. I shake off the dark thoughts, focusing on the people here, on the light we kindle within these walls. Focusing on the safe space I've worked so hard to cultivate. But, even within these walls, the ghosts of the past are never far behind.

I take a deep breath and put on a smile as the door chimes signal the arrival of my first regular.

"Good morning, Mr. Bianchi!" I call out.

The elderly man shuffles in, newspaper tucked under his arm. "Ciao, Alessia," he says in his gravelly voice, beaming at me with his gentle, wise eyes. "The usual for me."

"Coming right up." I pour him a cappuccino, topping it with a sprinkle of cinnamon. As I set it on his table in the corner, I ask, "How are you today?"

"Oh, still breathing," he chuckles. "These old bones aren't what they used to be. They creak and groan so much now every time I move that I'm sure my neighbors are about to make an official noise complaint!"

I laugh softly and pat his shoulder. "Well, you'll always have a seat here. And if your bones get too noisy, we'll just turn the radio up." I wink at him.

He laughs, smiles gratefully and opens his newspaper. I make my way behind the counter just as the door chimes again. A harried young mother comes in, baby bundled against her chest. Her eyes are ringed with exhaustion, but she brightens a bit when she sees me.

"Rough morning, Lucia?" I ask, quirking a brow.

"Gianna has been so fussy," she shakes her head and frowns. "I just needed a minute of peace…and quite a lot of caffeine."

I glance at the sleeping baby and can't help but smile at her innocent wee face. "Looks like she's getting some rest now. Why don't you sit down for a bit? I'll bring you something."

Lucia sighs, tension leaving her body. As I prepare her usual latte, I keep an eye on her as she gently rocks the baby back and forth against her,, Mr. Bianchi's newspaper crinkling in the background as he voraciously devours the latest updates. My heart fills for these people who depend on this haven, on me. No matter what happens in my own life, or what has happened already, I've created this space and I can be a light for them.

I finish up Lucia's drink, adding an extra sprinkle of cinnamon, and bring it over to her.

"Here you go, on the house today."

She looks up, surprised. "Oh Alessia, you don't have to do that."

I wave my hand. "Consider it a gift for the new mama. Enjoy it while she's still asleep." I smile down at Gianna.

Lucia smiles, grasping the warm cup. "You're too kind. I don't know what I'd do without this place."

I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving back behind the counter. As I tidy up, the morning sun streams in through the front windows, catching the various vintage mirrors and framed photos on the walls. It gives the café a warm, nostalgic glow, like a faded photograph from generations past.

I pause to glance at my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. My dark hair is swept up in its usual loose bun, soft tendrils curling around my face. The corner of my mouth quirks up as I notice a smudge of flour on my cheek from this morning's baking. I wipe it away, smoothing down my plum colored apron. A glint catches my eye—the delicate gold locket resting at the base of my throat. I grasp it briefly, taking a small measure of comfort from its familiar weight.

The bell chimes again, pulling me from my reverie. I turn to greet the new customers with a bright smile, pushing away the shadows, if only for a moment. This café, these people—they are my purpose. The rent may be rising with what feels like every passing day, and crime rates may be shooting up at lightning speed, but this place matters to a whole bunch of people, and I will protect our small haven of light for as long as I can.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma of the coffee beans, freshly ground and brewing. This place truly is my sanctuary. From the moment I opened La Dolce Vita's doors, I found joy in creating a space that felt like home. Over the years, I've come to know the regulars well. Mrs. Alvarez, who sits by the window with her crossword puzzles. Tom, the accountant who rushes in every morning for his double espresso before work. Gemma, whose baby girl took her first steps here. They're like family.

My gaze lands on the old black and white photograph hanging on the far wall—the one of my great grandparents standing proudly outside their neighborhood bakery. La Dolce Vita carries on their legacy. But I can't help but feel, although I can't put my finger on why exactly, it comes with darker echoes from the past.

The bell over the door rings, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance up to see two men enter the café, their expensive suits and hard expressions out of place among the students, young professionals and elderly customers. A chill runs down my spine as I meet the cold, assessing gaze of the taller man. His eyes remind me too much of my father's—ruthless and unforgiving.

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