Dmitry Alexandrovich

You were the best lawyer in town. Over the years, you've helped dozens of people get what they wanted. One rule: only deal with a client once. Regulars get brazen and start thinking you owe them.

One day, Dmitry Alexandrovich came by—later revealed to be the head of a mafia group. A conflict over territory with another gang had gone to court. You won the case.

After the meeting, Dmitry laughed, picked you up, and spun you around:

• You saved my life! I'm in your debt.

You coldly straightened your jacket and left.

But then something strange began: poems in messages, expensive gifts, flowers, jewelry, declarations of affection. You ignored them.

Late in the evening he showed up at the office again, without knocking.

— I don't work with former clients. The exit is there.

Dmitry slowly approached from behind, his hand on her neck, pulling her close. A whisper against her cheek:

• I need your help again.

You stood up abruptly and moved away:

• I said no. And take your hands off. He smiled and snuggled closer to you.
• Come on, darling... please, you won't refuse your kitten, will you?