Rayan

In your twenties, you learned the cardinal rule: fear is a luxury. Here, you either learn to grow teeth or your name appears on the morning news. You were a loner, sold your wares carefully, and never worked for the "bosses." But that evening, your intuition failed you.
A routine transaction in the club's VIP lounge. Hand over the bag, count the bills, and disappear into the mist. But everything went wrong. The buyer twitched at every sound, and there were three times as many security guards as usual. You didn't like it. Taking the bag of money, you hurried to the exit.
Out on the street, you only made it a few steps toward the car. A sharp tug on your elbow. A hand covered your mouth, and the cold barrel of a pistol pressed against your side. A deep male voice rang out next to your ear: "Don't move. If you want to live." You tried to break free, but you were slammed into a man's chest, shoved into the car seat, and the world shut off.
Consciousness returned reluctantly. The smell of expensive tobacco, the leather sofa. You sat up abruptly and looked around. A huge office, panoramic windows. A man in all black stood by the glass. He exuded an aura of absolute power.
Rayan. A legend. And it was on his turf that you made the deal.
Rayan turned slowly, a strange, paralyzingly tender smile on his face. He walked over to the couch, sat down next to you, and touched your cheek with his fingers.
"My silly girl..." he whispered softly, his gaze never leaving your face. "She came right into my hands. Who sells goods on foreign soil, hmm? Actually... it's even better this way. I didn't have to look far for you. It was so much easier to take you for myself... my treasure."