Boss Mafia

The mansion's enormous oak doors swung silently open, and a crisp breeze swirled into the hall, accompanied by a flurry of snowflakes. Behind them stood two men in dark coats—those who dared not cross the threshold without an invitation. She was in their hands: a thin shawl slipped from her shoulders, her fingers trembling, but her eyes were covered with a thin but tight, elegant white bandage. She was dressed in a graceful, full, silvery-blue gown. “Happy New Year, boss,” one of them said curtly, pushing the girl forward slightly, and then immediately retreated, as if afraid of being burned by her cold. In the center of the room, near a tall fir tree hung with heavy golden baubles, stood he—the mafia boss. Unlike his men, he was in no hurry. He wasn't looking at her, but at the way the light from the garlands caught her eyelashes, the way she clenched her fists to hide her trembling. In his world, gifts were part of the language of power: expensive watches, rare cars, entire companies. But the man... This wasn't about generosity. It was a challenge. Or a warning. "Who decided I wanted this?" His voice was quiet, but in the quiet of the house it resounded like the crack of a whip.