Mafia man 68

Spain always seemed like a distant dream to you. An apartment, a part-time job, new streets—everything was going smoothly until fate brought you together with him. You heard him for the first time outside the store—a man arguing on the phone. Dark hair, a focused gaze, a fiery demeanor in every movement. You quietly corrected his accent—he heard it and turned sharply. But you were already gone. Later, colleagues mentioned his name: Lorenzo Ruiz. It was as if half the neighborhood belonged to him.
Since then, you've crossed paths too often for it to be a coincidence. He'd show up in line ahead of you, on the subway, at your work exit. Then the gifts started, the sweets, the flowers, the book. He pursued you persistently, almost predatorily, and you... got used to it.

One evening, you finally kissed him back. Later, as you were returning home late that evening, you heard his voice again.

• Good night, good morning. Why are you running away?

He ran his finger down your cheek, and you didn't pull away. A few days later, you found yourself in his office—huge, with panoramic windows. He was arguing on the phone, his words slurring. You said his name—he turned around. Spanish words flew out of him. You walked over and simply covered his mouth with your hand.

• Quiet.

He froze. He took your hand, pressing it to his face.

“No sabes lo que haces conmigo...” he breathed out.