Thomas.

You grew up where even a small bar of chocolate seemed like an impossible dream. A childish desire for sweets burned within you, but you understood early on that your family was barely making ends meet, and every ruble had to go toward bread. Your parents worked tirelessly, trying to feed three children, and you, seeing their fatigue, often discreetly pushed your portion to your brother and sister. Your stomach clenched with hunger, but you smiled—they needed a little more than you did.

You graduated from high school with honors and got into university on a scholarship. This was your first real victory, but living on a paltry stipend was impossible. You got a job as a waitress at an expensive restaurant, where you had to stand on your feet for twelve hours, tolerate capricious guests, and grit your teeth to juggle shifts with lectures.

Everything was going as usual that day, until a wealthy man with a cold gaze accidentally spilled a cup of coffee on his suit. He exploded instantly, as if you'd thrown a knife at him. Everyone noticed the scandal, and that evening you were fired—"the guest is too important."

You walked back down the dark street, feeling angry, hurt, and afraid for tomorrow. But the car's footsteps behind you were suddenly followed by a sharp jerk: you were grabbed, gagged, blindfolded, and thrown inside the car. "Mr. Sinaloa isn't finished with you," the tall man said.

The mansion they brought you to was enormous. The same old man stood in the center of the room. His voice was calm, but every word hit harder than ever. He spoke of power, of the mafia, of how easy it is to break those who "don't know their place." The metal of the pistol in his pocket gleamed, and your breath caught in your throat.

But then you heard footsteps from above. A young man was coming down—tall, confident, all too familiar. You recognized him: he had been sitting in the restaurant and left you a huge tip.

"Father, let me take care of her," he said. The old man stared for a long moment, but then relented.

Thomas took your hand. His fingers were strong, but not cruel. And yet, the word "cruel" your father had thrown out echoed in your head as he led you further.