"It's perfect," Osborn said with a smile. He'd wiped down his brand new chrome espresso machine three times already, but that last bit of sparkling shine was what he needed. The city of Detroit was his beautiful new home, but it lacked the one thing that every city truly needed: good espresso. It was something of an Italian tradition to serve espresso, whether at Italian restaurants, diners, and the like. Osborn filled up the coin-operated newspaper stands and wiped down the counter.

His journey from the motherland was expressed in the several offerings he'd planned on the menu. All of the coffee beans were imported, of course, with Detroit not exactly offering the kind of climate the coffee bean needs to survive. But the manner in which the coffee was prepared was reminiscent of his time in Italia. All of his drinks- espressos, lattes, cappucinos, and more- were available in several styles and blends. The Roma Cappucina, for example, was a powerful blend of dark roasted beans with a soft foam and crema.

Styles from Napoli and Milan had a sweeter mix. But his favorite, of course, was a style from his home, Palermo. All of these were complex and made possible by his nice new Gaggia espresso machine. It was nicer than any he'd seen back home. He brewed his first cup, a small shot of espresso in that classic Palermo style. It was not a particularly strong coffee, it was perfect for a relaxing morning with a newspaper. As he sipped on his espresso, the first of his customers entered. Osborn greeted them warmly and threw a clean towel over his shoulder.

"What can I get for you?"

The familiar scent of roasted beans hit Tony Soprano the second he stepped through the door, followed by the clean gleam of chrome and the soft hiss of steam from the Gaggia machine. He paused at the entrance, taking it all in—the polished counters, the old-world charm, the kind of place that felt like home and business wrapped in one.

He approached the counter with a slight smirk, unbuttoning his overcoat.

“This joint smells like my grandmother’s kitchen back in Newark.”

Tony leaned on the counter, eyes drifting toward the espresso machine like he was inspecting a vintage car.

“That a Gaggia? Looks like she purrs.”

Osborn gave him a nod, the kind a man gives when he knows he’s proud of his work.

“Palermo style, huh?” Tony said, glancing at the menu board. “Lemme get one of those. And none of that American watered-down nonsense. I want the real thing.”

As Osborn started the brew, Tony glanced around the café. It was quiet now, but he could see the vision—the type of place that could turn into a local cornerstone. Maybe even something more.

“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice just slightly as he rested a thick roll of bills on the counter—quiet, not flashy. “Word is you’re tryin’ to bring a little flavor from the old country to this concrete mess we call Detroit. I respect that. But let me tell you something, Osborn… a place like this?”

He nodded toward the window.

“This could be more than espresso and biscotti. You get the right people stoppin’ in, maybe it becomes the kind of place where deals are sipped on slowly, if you catch my drift.”

Osborn raised an eyebrow, pouring the dark golden crema into a waiting demitasse.

Tony took the tiny cup, gave it a swirl, and sipped. Then he smiled.

“Now that… tastes like Sicily in a cup.”

He set the cup down, looking the man in the eye.

“You ever need protection, extra hands, or help movin’ beans that don’t exactly come through customs, you come see me. Name’s Tony. I run a little outfit not far from here. We help places like this… thrive.”

He tapped the side of the cup.

“This place’s got legs, Osborn. Let’s make sure it keeps walkin’.”

And with that, Tony tossed a tip on the counter—a little more than necessary—and stepped out the door, the bell above the entrance chiming softly behind him.

4o

A smoky coffee shop on the east side,The kind of joint where the regulars drink their espresso black, and the back booth is never “just for coffee.” Jazz leaks from the jukebox, muffled under murmurs and the clink of glassware.

Frankie steps in from the cold—Detroit’s winter hasn’t let up. His wool coat dusted with snow, he takes off his fedora and shakes it out before spotting Maddz in the back. Maddz is already seated, sleeves rolled, tie loose, a Marlboro burning low in the ashtray next to his demitasse.

Frankie grinning, voice rough like gravel and whiskey
"You always pick the booths where my back's to the door. One of these days, I’m gonna take it personal.

I couldn't help but smirk, never looks up from my coffee
"If you’ve made enough enemies to worry about that door, Frankie, maybe you ain’t been payin’ attention."

Frankie slides in across from him, eyes sharp beneath the charm
"I’ve made the right enemies. The ones that stay scared. Problem is, I think someone ain’t scared enough anymore."

I finally look up, nods once
"I heard. Word’s out—somebody’s feedin’ names to a fed in Dearborn. Not street kids either. Somebody close."

Frankie leans in, lowers his voice
"You think it’s that new crew outta Corktown? Vinnie says he saw one of ‘em meetin’ with a guy drivin’ a government Ford."

I snuffs out my cigarette, exhaling slowly
"I don’t care if it’s Corktown, Greektown, or the goddamn suburbs. If they’re sniffin’ around our books, we don’t wait for paperwork. We send a message."

Frankie cracks his knuckles, his tone murderous
"Want it loud or quiet?"

I glances out the rain-streaked window, then back at Frankie, my tone cool
"Quiet. But permanent."

A waitress brings over another espresso. She doesn’t make eye contact, and she doesn’t ask if they want cream. She knows better. Frankie watches her walk away before turning back to me. I smirk eyeing her up

"And the new guy? The one pushin’ for that slush racket over in Eastern Market?" Frankie leans in with a devil smile on his face

"If he’s smart, he’ll keep his mouth shut and his nose clean. If not... well, he’ll be the next guy we don’t see at Carmella’s." I smirk pulling out another cigarette from my back

The two sit back, the jazz humming low, while Detroit rumbles outside—factory horns in the distance, tires on wet pavement, and somewhere far off, the hum of a city that never really sleeps... especially when men like Maddz and Frankie are wide awake.

The bell above Sono Italia's door chimes with deceptive cheer as another customer steps into the warmth. Steam curls from the Gaggia machine like cigarette smoke in a confessional booth. At the counter, Osborn polishes already-gleaming chrome with the devotion of a priest preparing sacraments - his espresso the holy water of Detroit's morning sinners.

In the back booth, shadows cling to Maddz and Frankie like old sins. Their conversation drops to whispers when the waitress approaches, rising again when she retreats. Something about the way Frankie cracks his knuckles suggests this isn't just coffee talk. The jukebox jazz does little to cover the tension thrumming beneath their measured words.

At the register, a faint smudge remains where Tony Soprano's roll of bills had rested days earlier. The imprint lingers like a promise - or a threat. Regulars know better than to ask about the new "security" guys who started appearing during closing time, their laughter carrying through the kitchen doors.

A newcomer takes the stool nearest the exit (always nearest the exit), eyes flickering between the menu and the back booth. When Osborn slides a demitasse toward him, the crema swirls with unspoken questions: "You here for the coffee, or what the coffee lets you overhear?"

Outside, a black Lincoln idles at the curb. Inside, the espresso machine hisses like a coiled serpent. Somewhere between the imported beans and the Detroit streets, Sono Italia has become more than a café. It's become neutral ground - the kind of place where men sip their doom dark and sweet, one perfect shot at a time.

The clock above the counter ticks toward an unknown hour. Somewhere in the city, a phone rings in an empty office. Somewhere in the café, a chair scrapes back. The game, as they say, is afoot.

Mistletoe entered the establishment and saw that, even though the owner no longer was alive, the place was still running. A few people were already here and eating or enjoying a cup of coffee. She smiled as she passed a few other customers and made her way to the counter. A nice cup of coffee, dash of sugar, and a shot of espresso on the side would help her survive the day. A small bite to eat couldn't hurt either.

She gave her order and made her way over to one of the small tables. Taking a seat, she knew it would only tve a few minutes till her the coffee and croissant arrived. The cafe was a cute little joint. Some could lose track of time and drift off into a daydream at such a place. Life's worries felt a little further away. Unlike when having a hard drink, that just muted them for a while.

The gentleman brought over her coffee, shot of espresso and croissant. He placed it before her and asked if she needed anything else. Mistletoe smiled and informed him she was fine and gave him her thanks. He nodded and headed back to the counter. She broke her croissant and let it cool off a bit before taking her first bite. The coffee needed another moment too. She stirred it for a while and blew on it a couple times, then took a small sip.

"Perfect."