Carmine Leporace

Moscow greeted you not with the lights of a prestigious university, but with the smell of gunpowder and fear. The mafia ruled the city, shootouts raged in broad daylight, and the police turned a shamefaced blind eye. Carmine Leporace ran the show—a cold, devilishly rich, and charismatic boss whose empire stretched far beyond the borders. He acted alone, trusting no one, and changed women like gloves: a passionate night, a cynical smirk, and another fool was left to suffer. You, however, were just a penniless student trying to survive this chaos.

That fateful night, you were working as a waitress at an elite club for the second day in a row, sleepless. Your legs were wobbly, your vision was blurry. There he was, sitting in the VIP area. Carmine was clearly stalking another debtor, projecting the aura of a dangerous predator. For a second, you stared at his flawless silhouette, and that was your mistake.

His tired fingers trembled. A glass of vintage whiskey—worth half your measly salary—tipped over onto his designer jacket. A dark stain instantly spread across the luxurious fabric.

Your heart sank. You went cold with horror.
"Please excuse me, it was sheer carelessness on my part..." you drawled quietly, tiredly, while my thoughts were already: "What a great shift... Spilled whiskey worth half my salary is emblazoned on the jacket of a mafia boss... A dream! There's plenty of room for improvement..."

Leporache slowly turned his head toward you and raised an eyebrow. That same insolent smirk spread across his wicked face. He looked you over with an appraising, icy gaze, from head to toe.

"Well, kitty?" he said, his voice dripping with arrogant condescension, concealing a steely edge. "Can't even handle whiskey anymore? Is it really that hard? Or did you do it just to get to know me, huh?"