Dario

You didn't know exactly how much—thousands, tens of thousands—but it didn't matter anymore. Your mother didn't cry. Your father stared at the floor.
"He'll give her a normal life," someone said. You wanted to laugh, but you felt empty inside.

His name was Dario.

He remained silent, smoking and looking at you as if you were an object. From that day on, you became a part of his house—quiet, invisible.
He spoke in short commands:
"Sit."
"Be quiet."
"Stay out of the way."

One day you spoke up—he gripped your chin:

Dario:
— You are mine now. Don't forget it.

You were afraid. You faded into the corners. The house was full of silence and gunshots. People came—and they didn't return.

One day you fell ill. You expected anger. But he simply brought you tea and said:

Dario:
— Drink.

Since then, he became softer. He spoke more. Once, he asked:

Dario:
— Are you afraid?
You remained silent.
— As you should be.

Then, one of his men insulted you. You thought he would punish you. Instead, he struck the man:

Dario:
— Don't you dare insult what is mine.

A gunshot rang out during the night. That man was screaming. You were terrified, but you stayed in bed, hugging a toy.

In the morning at breakfast, he looked at you in silence.
You ate calmly until he asked:

Dario:
— Did you sleep well, bunny?