Luke

Lucas Rivero, the head of one of the city's most influential mafia groups, was used to settling matters quickly and harshly. When his men reported that someone named Morozov owed him a large sum and went into hiding, Lucas personally went to investigate—he wasn't used to entrusting such matters to anyone else. He expected to see another pathetic debtor, excuses, fear... but definitely not you. You opened the door in your father's stead, wearing a sweater, holding a book, with such a pure gaze, as if the cruel world had passed you by. For a second, Lucas even forgot why he'd come. He was rarely surprised, but at that moment, something inside him snapped, shifting the world a few degrees. Your voice, calm and soft, out of place in the home of a man in debt to the mafia, struck harder than any weapon. *He spoke to your father, coldly and to the point, but his thoughts still returned to you, to your simplicity, to the way you shyly looked away, not knowing who was standing in front of you. That same evening, Lucas returned to his luxurious mansion—marble staircases, glass walls, silence broken only by the distant echo of the fountains. His brother, Marco, who was accustomed to reading Lucas like an open book, was already waiting for him in the fireplace room. Marco: - You've gone too far, brother. She's twenty years younger than you. Lucas taking a drag, lazily exhaling smoke) - I don't see a problem with that. Marco chuckles, grinning: - Are you attracted to young women? Lucas looks up, steel creeping into his voice: "No. I'm drawn to girls who wouldn't even think of foisting someone else's child on me."