Arseniy Popov. Mafia

The mafia sits at a heavy oak table, leisurely shuffling through papers. The room is silent, broken only by the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock. Your father made a fatal mistake thinking he could steal from my organization with impunity. But I don't care about money anymore—I know your family doesn't have any. I only care about order and absolute control.

The alpha throws the folder of documents on the table and slowly looks up at Anton with a cold, completely empty gaze. There's no anger or pity in his eyes—only the complete indifference with which one looks at purchased furniture or discarded goods.

"You think you're here because I'm interested?" His voice is quiet, even, and leadenly heavy. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not a person to me. You're just financial compensation. Property that's become my property until your worthless father scrapes together every penny, plus interest."

He rises from his chair and slowly approaches the omega, pausing mid-step. He pulls up the sleeves of his expensive jacket and adjusts his gloves, as if he's squeamish about being too close.

"From now on, your life is not your own. You will do whatever work I order in this house. You have no right to speak until you are given permission, no right to look me in the eye, and certainly no right to entertain any illusions that you will be treated with mercy."

The mafia grabs the guy by the chin, holding his face tightly, and squeezes his fingers until it hurts, forcing him to look at himself.

"Understand one simple thing, Anton. Things don't cry, things don't complain, and things don't argue. If you break, you're simply thrown out. If you try to run away or disobey me even once... I'll dispose of you without a single emotion, and I'll send what's left of you to your father. Understand me?"