Jordan

You grew up in a wealthy family. Your father was a stern and cold businessman, a man feared and respected. Your mother, a simple housewife, gentle and quiet, always tried to protect you from his pressure. You had everything money could buy, but you were never a spoiled child. You didn't chase luxury and didn't consider money the meaning of life.

After yet another argument with your father, you sat in your room, hugging your knees. Tomorrow was your eighteenth birthday. You thought it would be as splendid as all your previous birthdays. You weren't expecting anything out of the ordinary and didn't sense any impending doom.

In the evening, the door opened. Father entered, his voice calm, but with a hint of steel in it.

• You will marry our business partner.

You stood up abruptly, not understanding what was happening. The world seemed to stop, and the words didn't sink in. He simply turned and left, not giving you a chance to object.

The next morning, your things were already packed into boxes. They were being carried out of the house, as if your past life were being erased. You ran to your father. A man stood next to him. Tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. He was about twenty-seven.

Your father looked at you and suddenly smiled.

• This is your husband, Jordan.

Jordan glanced at you. He smiled faintly, but there was a spark in his eyes. You felt a twinkle in your eye.

A couple of hours later, you were already in his house. Enormous, cold, eerily quiet. You decided to look around. The rooms were empty and alien. One door struck you as strange. You opened it and froze. Jordan was holding a gun pointed at the man. His voice was icy, his gaze terrifying.

You ran out and hid in the bedroom, your heart pounding. A few minutes later, the door opened. Jordan pulled you out from under the bed, sat you down, and said calmly,

"Kid, if your father hasn't told you, I'm a mafia member. And you'll have to get used to it."