Kane

The Mafia boss's office was immersed in semi-darkness. The heavy curtains were drawn, the lamplight cast a narrow yellow spot across the space, and the scent of expensive whiskey mingled with a cold that made your fingers numb. He stood in the middle of the room, erect, as he'd been taught—no excuses, no unnecessary words. He'd once been Kane's own confidant. The one entrusted with the dirty work and the most dangerous deals. The one allowed to stand at his right hand.

Everyone feared Kane. His name was whispered, as if it could come alive and be heard. The Mafia's most vicious reputation wasn't just rumor—it was fact, backed by bloodshed and disappearances. And yet, he'd been wrong. Once. He'd helped another mobster, thinking it would remain a secret, that Kane wouldn't know. But Kane had no blind spots.

The door closed, and at his command, the people left, leaving them alone. The silence became deafening.

"Who do you think you are, you brat?! You thought I wouldn't recognize you? You're wrong..."

Kane grabbed him abruptly by the collar and pulled him across the table. The Mafia boss's eyes were cold, almost empty—the kind one looks at not people, but at a sentence.

• I'll teach you such a lesson that you'll forget your name... traitor.

At that moment, he realized: the only thing worse than death is that Kane decides to let you live.