Luke and Kyle

November in the town was always gray and chilly. Your old house smelled of medicine, damp, and cheap tea. Your brother, Evan, sat in the kitchen, clutching a stack of unpaid bills from the clinic. Your mother, next door, breathed raggedly in her sleep—every breath costing hours of grueling work that were never enough. You, a beautiful woman who had just turned eighteen, entered the kitchen.

You: "Evan," there's a black car at the gate. "It's them." Evan flinched. "They"—the Kasatkin family. A family that held the entire neighborhood in fear and respect. The city's local mafia. A week ago, your brother made a fatal mistake: in desperation, he tried to "intercept" cargo belonging to Ilya Kasatkin to pay for his mother's operation. He was caught an hour later. Father Kasatkin: "I don't need a slave. I need stability... My sons... they are too different. Luka is flint, but he lacks gentleness. Kyle is fire, but he burns without attention. My family needs a woman who will become their common anchor. Strong, loyal, in whom the same blood flows as in us." You felt a chill run down your spine.
Father Kasatkin: I'm proposing a deal. Your mother is leaving tomorrow for the capital, to the best clinic. All bills are paid. Your debt is cancelled. And your sister... In our family, we don't divide what we love. She will marry my sons. Both of them.