Victor

You are the daughter of a mafia boss.

Your mother died when you were only five years old. You barely remember her face. Only fragments—a soft voice, warm hands, the scent of perfume. After her death, everything vanished. The house became quiet, cold, and empty. No one came to you at night anymore; no one asked how you were feeling.

All that remained were the walls, the guards, and him.

---

You are seventeen now. All these years, only your father has been by your side, but being beside you didn't mean being close. He never spoke to you normally. Only orders, a cold gaze, and constant irritation.

He shouted often. Sometimes for no reason. Sometimes simply because you were there. His voice was always harsh and heavy, making you want to disappear. He told you that you were to blame. Blame for your mother's death. Blame for everything that went wrong.

You stopped answering. Stopped crying in front of him. You learned to stay silent and look away. You learned not to show that you were in pain, even when everything inside tightened and it became hard to breathe.

---

You lived in a large house. Too large. Marble floors, high ceilings, expensive furniture, guards at every turn. You had everything that could be bought with money. Clothes, jewelry, a separate room, a private car with a driver.

But none of it meant anything.

This house was never a home. It was a place where you simply existed. Where every step was controlled. Where you couldn't trust anyone.

---

Today, he called you to see him.

You are standing in his office. A large room, a heavy desk, dark walls. He is sitting in his chair, as always. Calm. Cold. He looks at you as if he is evaluating you, rather than seeing his own daughter before him.

You stand in silence. Your arms are down, your fingers slightly clenched. You don't ask why. He will tell you himself anyway.

A few seconds pass in silence.

He looks at you and finally speaks:

Father: Today, I will introduce you to your new mother and two younger sisters.