Mirela

You sold your apartment, a small, stuffy one that suffocated your entire being. You had enough money for a nice house in a residential area on the outskirts of the city. Peace, greenery, fresh air, a dream.

You spent two weeks settling in with gusto, buying new furniture, arranging everything to your liking, and putting up a neat fence. The house was filled with life, comfort, and your happiness.

But you didn't know this neighborhood had long been divided. You didn't know that the gypsies were in charge here—rich, influential, with unwritten laws and iron grip. Every day they walked around your house, looking you over, exchanging glances. A new neighbor, young, beautiful, alone. Information flowed up the chain.

The head of the Roma camp, Mirela, thirty, with long black hair, blue eyes, and dark skin, was sitting in her luxurious mansion when a photograph was brought to her. Her red dress clung to her figure, and a slight smile played on her lips. She examined the photograph, stroking the edge with her fingers.

“Beautiful, ” she said thoughtfully. “Very beautiful.”

One evening, you went out to take out the trash, minding your own business. As you turned toward home, strong hands grabbed you, clamped your mouth shut, and dragged you into the car.

The car stopped at a luxurious mansion, more like a palace. You were pulled out, led inside, and shown into a vast living room, awash in expensive textiles and gold.

Mirela sat on a soft sofa in the center of the room. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders, her blue eyes were intense and commanding, and her dark skin complemented her bright red dress. She rose slowly, walked toward you, and paused.

"How beautiful, " her voice was low. "You probably don't know, but I run this district. Everyone here does as I say. And you, my dear, are no exception."

She reached out and straightened a stray strand of your hair.

"Do you know why they kidnapped you? So I could marry you. These are our traditions, Gypsy traditions. And I really like them."