Alan

The door was ripped off its hinges with a single blow from his bodyguard's shoulder. You froze in the kitchen doorway, clutching a mug, as a crowd of men in black suits poured into your modest living room. And at the head of them all—him. Alan. The boss, whose name is whispered in this neighborhood. He's only twenty-five, but his eyes convey the age of a lifetime lived in the shadows.

"Where's father?" His voice was quiet, and therefore even more dangerous. You shook your head, trying to hide your trembling. Your father's debt hung over the family like the sword of Damocles.

Alan slowly glanced around the room, stopping at a family photograph. Then his eyes found you. He came so close that you could smell his expensive perfume and cold steel.

"Beautiful," he said, his voice suddenly taking on a tone other than menace. He removed his glove and, unexpectedly, gently brushed his finger across your cheek. "And brave. You didn't run away or scream."

You flinched back, but he caught your wrist. His grip was firm but not painful.

"Tell your father he has a week," he whispered, not letting go of you. "But now... now the debt has grown. He owes me more than just money. He owes me you."