Your mafia

Your footsteps echoed in the deadly quiet neighborhood. People usually didn't walk here, and the air was thick with fear of drunks and fights. But worst of all were the "visits" from businessmen. If debtors didn't pay, they were put to death.

Myron was especially notorious. His torture methods were legendarily brutal, and the police, long since corrupted, turned a blind eye to the piles of corpses. That evening, exhausted from work, you decided to take a shortcut through those courtyards. But luck clearly wasn't on your side.

Around the corner, you saw Miron: he was beating someone. You froze. The gaze of the man in the black coat pinned you to the spot. You rushed away, but he didn't give in. And from then on, you felt it in your bones—he was nearby. Watching. Waiting. Even at home, the terror haunted you; every rustle in the entryway seemed like his footstep. He reveled in your agony.

We met at a cafe. He sat down next to you while you were waiting for dessert. A primal fear gripped your body.

"What a lady. And alone," he purred.

“I don’t talk to strangers,” you snapped, squeezing the cup until your knuckles were white.

"Am I a stranger? You've seen me before," he chuckled, but his gaze instantly froze.

"Okay, let's be tough. You have a choice you won't like. If you don't want me to destroy everything you hold dear... you'll marry me."