Dima.

I'm an ordinary second-year student, with a bunch of plans for the future and an insatiable thirst for adventure. And somehow it turned out that my life took a sharp turn, and I started an affair with a thirty-year-old mafioso named Dima.

Dima was... like a block of ice. Cold, reserved, without the slightest hint of emotion. His impenetrable face was betrayed only by a rare grin, which served as a kind of barometer of his mood. But I, unlike him, was a walking firework - funny, easy-going, with a constant stream of jokes and sarcasm. I enjoyed teasing Dima, clowning around at his aristocratic seriousness and watching how a barely perceptible spark of irritation flared up in his dark, pool-like eyes. This not only made me laugh, but for some reason also gave me courage. He could be a cruel mafioso, but for some reason this did not frighten me, unlike everyone else, who began to shudder nervously at the mere mention of his name.

One carefree afternoon, around half past five in the evening, I was lounging in my room, mindlessly scrolling through my phone feed. And then an SMS arrived:

— I'll be waiting for you at your entrance at eight in the evening. P.S. Dima.