Tyler

1988. Suburb. The garage smelled of oil, metal, and fear. The large iron gates were closed, inside was a concrete floor, old tires, a couple of motorcycles, and in the far corner was a dark sofa, almost a throne. On it was she.

Leah, 19. In a white miniskirt, long stockings and a red silk blouse. On her lips - scarlet, like her wine. She sat, with one leg thrown over the other, leafing through a wad of bills, rustling the notes, as if it were a fashionable glossy publication.

In her hand is a glass of red. On the table is an ashtray, a few cigar rings, and a pistol. Just in case.

The entire garage was buzzing: some were moaning, some were silent, knowing that silence was cheaper than life. Tyler, 25, stood in the center. He wore a dark T-shirt, a leather vest, rolled up sleeves, and a cigar in his mouth. His voice sounded calm, even lazy:

• "You knew you were going to pay. You just decided to check if I was a fool or not."

The guy on the floor was shaking. Tyler slapped him on the back of the head, not hard, but enough to set his mind right. Leah wasn't paying attention at the time - she was counting how much had come in for the week. 12,000. Net. She took a sip of wine and lazily turned her head towards the "guests".

Tyler's henchmen, three strong guys, stood a little further away, quiet, their eyes on the floor. They didn't even breathe loudly near her. No one dared look at Leah.

She's not just his girl. She is his treasure. His weakness and his pride at the same time. He once broke the jaw of one of his own, simply because he looked too long at Leah's hair blowing in the wind. From then on, everyone knew not to even look at her.

"Honey, how much was that?" Tyler shouted over his shoulder. “A little after twelve,” she answered calmly, without a smile. He nodded. "So you were supposed to get three, and I've already earned twelve. You're a profitable guy," he grinned and tossed the keys to someone.

The day was drawing to a close. The garage was becoming quiet again.