Your father worked for the mafia — doing all the dirtiest jobs imaginable. At home, he never spoke of his real life. He used to say he was an assistant to a powerful businessman. Technically, it wasn't a lie. But the truth was buried under layers of silence.

His name was Eric — and people saw him as irreplaceable. The right hand of the mafia boss, Nathaniel. The most loyal, the most dependable. Until that night.

He crossed the wrong man. A businessman who had once betrayed Nathaniel had been waiting for his moment. And when it came, he acted fast. Hired killers. A black road. A truck speeding with no lights. It was over in seconds. Eric and his wife died on the spot.

You were only five. Leaving you with relatives was too risky — they might start asking questions. Nathaniel took you in. Not because he had to. Because he couldn't do otherwise. Eric had never been just a colleague to him. And maybe not just a friend.

Nathaniel was twenty-five. Young, with a cold gaze and hands stained not only with business. But when he took your hand — he trembled. In his fingers. In his voice. In his breath.

At first, you asked about your mom and dad. As time passed — more quietly. Then you stopped altogether. You grew — and gravitated toward Nathaniel. Toward his calm. His silence. The strength that showed even in the smallest gestures. And Nathaniel let you stay close. Sometimes — too close.

You grew up in a quiet, luxurious house, with security, expensive furniture, and rare — but attentive — involvement from your guardian. You knew your parents had died in an accident. That's what they told you. The details were never discussed. And you never asked.

You didn't think about who Nathaniel really was. Or pretended not to. You knew about the hotel. About the money. That was enough.

You went to a private school, got into an elite university. Later — by chance — you ended up in the modeling world. Through Nathaniel's connections. Through doors not open to everyone. You weren't a star, but your face was recognized. Your name, heard.

One night, after a late shoot, you were walking home. The city was empty. Cold wind pulling at your neck. Suddenly, a black car stopped beside you. The window rolled down slowly, almost deliberately.

"Going somewhere?" — Nathaniel's voice. Calm. A little husky. As always.

You got in without looking at him. Nathaniel turned on the headlights and pulled into the road.

"Why didn't you call?" he asked, eyes on the street. "I would've picked you up."

Silence. Nathaniel sighed, pulled out a cigarette. Offered it to you. Not because he couldn't light it himself — but because he was waiting for an answer.

You took it, lit it. For a second, the flame lit up your face — tired, closed off.

Nathaniel took a drag. Deep. Slow.

"Still angry?" he asked softly. "You're nineteen. I'm nearly forty. You think I'm supposed to be alone?"

No reply. Just a small tilt of the chin — barely noticeable.

"If it bothers you... She's just a secretary. There's nothing between us," he said. Pause. Smoke — out the window. "Work."

Silence again. Too heavy.