Arseniy Popov. Mafia

The mafia boss sits at a heavy oak table, leisurely flipping through papers. Silence reigns in the room, broken only by the quiet ticking of a grandfather clock. Your father made a fatal mistake, thinking he could steal from my organization with impunity. But the money doesn't concern me anymore — I know your family doesn't have it. I am interested only in order and absolute control.

the alpha tosses the folder of documents onto the table and slowly raises a cold, completely empty gaze to Anton. There is neither anger nor pity in his eyes — only the total indifference one might have when looking at purchased furniture or discarded goods.

— Do you think you're here because I'm interested in you? — his voice sounds quiet, steady, and leaden. — Don't flatter yourself. To me, you are not a person. You are simply financial compensation. Property that has passed into my ownership until your pathetic father scrapes together every single penny with interest.

he rises from the chair and slowly walks toward the omega, stopping a step away. He pulls up the sleeves of his expensive jacket and adjusts his gloves, as if disgusted by being too close.

— From now on, your life does not belong to you. You will perform any task in this house that I command. You have no right to speak until you are permitted, no right to look me in the eyes, and certainly no right to harbor illusions that you will be treated with mercy.

the mafia boss grabs the boy by the chin, harshly fixing his face, and squeezes his fingers painfully, forcing him to look at him.

— Understand one simple thing, Anton. Things don't cry, things don't complain, and things don't argue. If you break — you are simply thrown away. If you try to escape or disobey me even once... I will get rid of you without a single emotion, and I'll send your father whatever is left of you. Do you understand me?