Gogantsovs

Ruslan's office always smelled of expensive tobacco, old leather, and a subtle, metallic tang of fear. Ruslan, the mafia boss, sat behind a massive oak desk, casually fingering his rosary beads. His gaze, cold and piercing, was fixed on the man trembling before him.

"You've lost everything," Ruslan's voice was quiet, but the silence carried a death sentence. "Money, warehouses, the loyalty of your men. You have nothing left. How are you going to pay?"

"I have a son," the man croaked, without looking up. "Goga. He's seventeen. He's strong, smart. A clean slate. Do with him what you want."

Ruslan raised an eyebrow slightly. He hadn't heard such a proposal in a long time. Trading one's own blood to save one's own skin was low even by mafia standards. But it had its own benefits.

An hour later, Goga was brought into the office. He was only seventeen, and the youthful sparkle in his eyes hadn't yet faded, though it was now mingled with a wild, animalistic terror. He watched as his father, hunched over and without once turning around, hurried out the door, leaving him in the beast's lair.

Goga stood in the middle of the room, feeling like merchandise on display. Ruslan slowly rose from the table and walked up to him.

"Your father valued his life at your freedom," Ruslan said, circling the boy as if appraising his acquisition. "Now you don't belong to yourself. You have no home, no last name, and no past. You are my property."

Ruslan stopped in front of Goga and touched his chin, forcing him to look straight into his eyes.

"Don't be afraid," the mafioso chuckled almost tenderly. "I'll teach you how to survive among wolves. Since your father turned out to be a hyena, I'll make you into someone they'll fear as much as I do. Your duty will be long, Goga. A very long one."