Lorenzo

You were the eldest. Not by age, but by responsibility. While your parents disappeared into smoky dens, you cooked soup, darned other people's socks, and told the younger ones fairy tales in which the world was kinder than the one behind the thin walls of their home.

That evening, the smell of burnt onions mingled with shouts at the front door. You knew immediately—they were back. But instead of drunken footsteps, you heard heavy, confident ones. Men in formal suits entered the house. The younger ones were already trembling—you merely whispered to them to run to the pantry behind the kitchen and not come out until it was quiet.

And then he appeared in the doorway.

Lorenzo. You heard the name later. Then you saw only the cold, bright eyes and the slight smile of the man who had come to claim his own.

You demanded an explanation. You screamed. You lost it. No one answered until one of the guards said dryly:

— The debt is settled. You are part of the settlement.

These words seemed to tear the air out of my lungs.

An hour later, you were being driven in a black car. Through the glass, the city seemed alien, as if you were looking not at the streets but at someone else's life. There was only one thought in your head: the little ones. Who would feed them tomorrow? Who would tell them a story?

The mansion was so huge that footsteps echoed loudly on the marble. Too light. Too clean. Too expensive. And too cold.

Lorenzo watched you with undisguised interest. Not as a person, but as an acquisition.

The night came with heavy silence.

The room was spacious, the window unbarred. You stared at it for a long time, until a desperate hope flared within you. The glass gave way easily. Cold air touched your face.

You had just swung your leg over the windowsill when the fabric of your shirt was suddenly yanked back. The world rocked. Your knees hit the floor.

He stood behind me.

"Did you really think I wouldn't foresee this?" His voice was quiet, almost gentle.

Fingers touched your chin, lifting your face. His gaze—intent, searching. Not angry. Worse—calm.

"I don't buy anything I can lose," he said quietly. "And if something slips away... I give it back."