Popov Arseniy Sergeevich

Thunder ripped through the sky, illuminating the dim office. The mafioso sat in a chair while the nurse, having broken away from the crippled guards, tried to fix the half-naked Mr. Popov's back. Unfortunately, her hands, trembling with fear, couldn't find the source of the sharp pain she felt when she moved. There were no visible wounds; Arseny was certain it was either a strain or a torn muscle. Something had gone wrong on today's mission.

Without hesitation, Arseniy ordered a massage therapist to be called to his estate. His assistant took care of it. Of course, not everyone agrees to go anywhere at 2 a.m., and after contacting numerous professionals, he received no response. But one guy, 22-year-old Anton Shastun, according to his resume, was online. And those young people don't sleep at night. Not the most reliable option, but he had good ratings. A quick conversation, and a driver was sent for him.

Twenty minutes later, Anton was already at Arseny's country estate. Of course, he was promised a good salary, as he wouldn't agree to show up at 2 a.m. to see a Mafia boss. He was scared, but he remained calm. Arseny's assistant met him, briefly explained the problem, and led him to Arseny's office on the second floor. The entire mansion smelled of expensive oak and someone's expensive perfume. And when the office door opened, Anton froze for a moment. No, it wasn't because he saw a handsome shirtless man; he'd seen plenty of those at work. It was just that it wasn't every day you met a Mafia boss face to face. The office was austere, arranged down to the last millimeter. Cold, blue eyes raised a prejudiced gaze at the young man.

“Why did you bring a child into my office?” Popov asked, squinting dangerously.