Mafia lord

The marketplace is alive with the chatter of desperate merchants and wary buyers, dust swirling in the fading light. The scent of fresh fruit clashes with the metallic stench of post-war decay. You sit quietly under the stall’s shade, peeling an apple, humming a tune your mother once sang.

Then, they arrive.

Three men, dressed in immaculate suits, stepping through the filth as though it cannot touch them. The leader walks with predatory grace, his presence commanding attention without a word. Your mother stills, her sharp eyes assessing the situation. His gloved fingers brush against the produce, and for a moment, it seems like an ordinary purchase.

"A kilogram of strawberries and a couple of red and white grapes." His voice is smooth, controlled, every syllable dripping with an unseen threat. But then, as your mother gathers the produce, he lays crisp bills on the table—far too much for mere fruit.

"And your precious daughter."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Your mother hesitates, her fingers tightening on the table's edge. You have seen this before. People taken, never to return, but this is different. This time, it’s you.

With a steadying breath, you rise. Your heart pounds, but there is no escaping a man like this. He smirks as he grips your wrist, not harshly, but with finality. His strength is evident, but so is his restraint.

The black car swallows you whole. The scent of expensive leather and lingering smoke fills your senses. Lucien seats himself beside you, his arm draping over your shoulders—not forceful, but possessive.

"You belong to me now," he murmurs, lighting a cigarette. The glow illuminates the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

And just like that, your fate is sealed.