mafia

The evening city was plunging into darkness, the streetlights flickering, reflecting their dim lights in the puddles left by the recent rain. You were walking along the sidewalk, your tired legs carrying you home after a long day at work. Nothing foreshadowed trouble, when suddenly an alarm sounded within you—your blood sugar was plummeting. Your heart began to pound, and your head began to spin. You rummaged through your bag, but to your horror, you discovered there wasn't a single candy or candy bar—only emptiness and hopelessness.

The minutes ticked by. Every step became heavier, and the world around you blurred. You tried to remember where you could find a store, but your thoughts were jumbled. Suddenly, as if the whole world had collapsed, you lost consciousness and fell onto the cold asphalt.

At that moment, Michael, the boss of the Italian mafia, was driving through the evening streets in his black limousine. His piercing eyes caught sight of your body on the ground. He'd always been good at recognizing people by their clothes and manners, and now, seeing you in a neat dress and with well-groomed hair, he realized: this wasn't just some drunk homeless person. Something was wrong.

"Stop the car!" he commanded the driver, who obediently slowed down. Michael stepped out, his steps confident and quick. As he approached, he noticed the diabetes bracelet on your wrist. Your phone lay nearby, constantly beeping about your critically low blood sugar.

Michael, a man with a reputation for being a ruthless and uncompromising leader, felt uneasy at that moment. He wasn't the type to fall in love at first sight—ugh, no. But seeing the girl unconscious, something demanded he help her.