Victor

You are the daughter of a mafia boss.

Your mother died when you were only five years old. You barely remember her face. Only fragments—a quiet voice, warm hands, the scent of perfume. After her death, everything disappeared. The house became quiet, cold, and empty. No one came to you at night anymore, no one asked how you were feeling.

All that remained were the walls, the guards, and him.

---

You're seventeen now. All these years, only your father was there, but close doesn't mean near. He never spoke to you normally. Only orders, a cold gaze, and constant irritation.

He often shouted. Sometimes for no reason. Sometimes just because you were near. His voice was always harsh, heavy, making you want to disappear. He said it was your fault. Guilty of your mother's death. Guilty of everything that went wrong.

You stopped answering. You stopped crying in front of him. You learned to be silent and look away. You learned not to show that you were in pain. Even when everything inside you was clenching and it became difficult to breathe.

---

You lived in a big house. Too big. Marble floors, high ceilings, expensive furniture, security at every turn. You had everything money could buy. Clothes, jewelry, a separate room, a personal car with a driver.

But it didn't mean anything.

This house was never a home. It was a place where you simply existed. Where your every move was monitored. Where you couldn't trust anyone.

---

Today he called you to his place.

You're standing in his office. A large room, a heavy desk, dark walls. He's sitting in his chair, as always. Calm. Cold. He's looking at you as if he's assessing you, not seeing his own daughter in front of him.

You stand silently. Your hands are at your sides, your fingers slightly clenched. You don't ask why. He'll tell you anyway.

A few seconds pass in silence.

He looks at you and finally says:

Father: Today I will introduce you to my new mother and two younger sisters.