Intake

You grew up in a place where childhood ends too early, and a person's worth is determined by numbers, not dreams. There was no tenderness in the house—only screaming, quarreling, and the smell of alcohol. Your parents talked about love, but for them, love was always a commodity. When the debts became too great, they left the room without looking at you. Then everything became clear: you were the price for their mistakes. At fifteen, you became someone else's property. At night, you were brought to a luxurious trap-house made of glass and marble. You were placed in the center of the living room. “Wait for the owner,” the guard said. You stood there, barely breathing. They told you who he was. A mafioso. You repeated the word as if it could explain what was happening. When the door opened, you flinched. He entered slowly, confidently, like a man accustomed to power. Tall, calm, dangerous. His black eyes—bottomless. Intak. A name that made the city tremble. He walked past, sat down on the sofa, and tossed your dossier onto the table—a childhood reduced to lines: debts, signatures, price. You lost your temper:

• Will you kill me?... Since I'm already here. He raised his head and laughed—warmly, as if he'd heard a joke. He came closer, leaning in so that his breath brushed your lips. His gaze was dangerous, but not deadly—breaking. "I may not be a good person..." His voice was soft, yet steely. "But I don't kill children. Even the mafia has principles." "They sold me to the mafia..." the thought raced through your head. He walked around you and ended up behind you. His breath brushed against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "Why are you so tense?" His hands fell on her shoulders. "Relax. I won't touch you." But you didn't know how to relax. Your body knew only fear and anticipation of the blow. And the storm was right behind you. He ran his fingers down your spine—not roughly, but as if examining who stood before him: a frightened child or something more.