POV 𝒟𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒:

In that moment, as I caught her, her bright ocean blue eyes widened, resembling those of a little baby. Her gray balayage dyed hair complemented her pale face, contrasting with her small nose and heart-shaped lips. Her gaze was pure and innocent. One could tell she was a clumsy girl, especially since she didn't even notice her nose bleeding. If I hadn't pulled myself together in that moment, I would have been lost in her gaze. Even when she spoke, her voice was feminine and gentle. When she stuttered, I couldn't help but want to laugh; it seemed like she didn't know how to communicate with men. As she sat in the distance and intentionally buried her face in a newspaper, I purposely stared at her for a while longer, finding it amusing how she hectically tried to stuff her croissant into her mouth and then choked. My eyes widened at the sight of her. Somehow, she was a bit of a ditz but also sweet. I shook my head and chuckled softly.

When Mary, the café's staff member, came and said, "Mr. Russ, we greatly appreciate your contributions to the café! Everything is on the house," I looked at her, and her black eyes sparkled with happiness. 

Not everyone shares the same fate. Some grow up with love and affection, while others with suffering and violence. I donated money to this café annually to support its survival because my little sister wished for it. 

I reassured her, "No problem, and no thanks, my hunger seems to have disappeared somehow." 

She smiled and nodded at me before disappearing again. 

I noticed her glancing from afar to see what was going on. She stood up, and from a distance, I saw she was wearing a suit. Black pants, her white blouse tucked into them, her black high heels echoing throughout the café, and she carried her blazer jacket on her arm with her bag. Based on her clothing, one could assume she worked in an office or institutional setting where she apparently earned a good income. I would estimate her entire outfit as tailor-made and costing between $2000 and $5000. One thing she definitely had was curves; she possessed the perfect hourglass figure. 

She stopped by me and said, smiling, "Thank you."

 Her smile brought out her dimples, and I couldn't help but smile back.

The fact is, I saw her at the café five days a week. She seemed to always come here after work to eat, and sometimes she came with a guy. I started noticing her when she was sitting in the café with this guy, and tears welled up in her eyes. The way they interacted made it seem like they were a couple about to break up, but no, she was crying because she found out he had kissed another girl at the club when she wasn't feeling well. 

He said, "It was a mistake; it won't happen again!" 

I ignored this conversation and looked at the guy from the corner. From my years of experience with people, I knew he was a liar and a haystack just by looking at him. He would definitely repeat it. She looked at him with tears in her eyes. Back then, I shook my head and thought, that's why you need a cold character.

I frequented this café because I could have peace and quiet here and do my work as a cartel boss, even if the FBI was nearby. I am the CEO of a biotech company that has developed a new and market-leading diabetes injection. Our skyscraper is just 10 minutes away. My little sister is officially registered as the CEO, but I oversee everything and make the decisions. The company is just a cover for our cartel. After all, I had to finance my operations somehow. I am one of the most feared figures in the underworld. Many ordinary people don't know me because I prefer not to get my hands dirty myself.

 I am the king in the game of chess, so to speak.

So, her name was Sofia. The name rolls off the tongue easily, just like her, I suppose. Now she's piqued my interest. She disappeared quickly, and I got up and left too. My Bentley was parked nearby the café, and when the driver saw me coming out, he hurried outside and opened the back door. I walked over and got in, and the driver closed the door. 

He turned around in the driver's seat and asked, "Where to?" 

I looked out of the tinted windows and said, "Home."

 He nodded and started the car. Some days I drove myself, and on others, I called upon our faithful old driver, Frederick. The journey took 20 minutes.

In an isolated area stood our villa, surrounded by tall metal fences and gates, with a metallic sliding door for cars that automatically scanned license plates and allowed entry. Frederick parked the car, and I got out, noticing my sister's Rolls Royce and my mother's Lamborghini Cayenne parked; they were home too. I walked to the door and opened it with my fingerprint. As I entered, the smell of Okroshka and Stroganoff wafted into my nose. Now I was hungry again. 

My mother called from the kitchen, "Dante, is that you?"

 I called back, "Yes." 

I took off my suit jacket and stretched my neck until it cracked. 

My sister ran out from her room upstairs, leaning against the stair railing, and said amusedly from above, "Oh dear brother, you're back!"

 I widened my eyes and looked up, saying, "Elena, be careful, you could fall down."

 She imitated me, and I sighed. I could have scolded her properly and given her a punishment, as I would with my employees in the real world. But I loved my little sister too much, even if I didn't show it, because I'm not good at displaying emotions. Every time I see the scar on her face, stretching from her left cheek up to her eyebrows, it reminds me of the past and makes me want to be isolated and cold again. I walked from the living room through the grand hallway to the kitchen to meet my mother. She turned to me and smiled. Half of her face was burned, leaving a scar on my heart too.

I smiled back at her and went to the pots, taking a spoonful into my mouth, and damn, it was delicious. I turned to her and kissed her on the forehead. 

"Why are you cooking again on your own? You know we have servants in the house for a reason," I said. 

She waved her hand dismissively. "Dante, you know I prefer cooking and cleaning myself. It's more fun that way," she replied.

 I sighed, put my hands in my pockets, and headed towards the hallway, saying, "Do whatever you want."

Along the long hallway was my room. I opened it and tossed my jacket into the chute in the wall, which led it directly to the washing machine via a tube. I took off my shoes, and the rest of my clothes ended up in the chute too. From the large room, I went over to the bathroom, where I opened the door and stepped into the large shower, letting the warm water cascade over my naked skin. Steam filled the air around me. In the mirror, I saw my body covered in scars. Memories flooded back, and I leaned against the wall with one hand.

La Casa, our cartel, had been passed down through generations, from family to family, but only to the male members. My father, also known among us as the big asshole, had once been the boss. He always took out the stress from the cartel on our mother and us out, beating her in front of us. He forced us to sit in the living room and watch. The image of my mother's face, bruised and bloody, crying on the floor, was burned into my and my sister's brains.

One day, it was particularly bad. I was ten, and Elena was six. The asshole had lost $10 million in the casino and took our mother's face and pressed it onto the hot stove. Her scream echoed throughout the house. I ran to him and bit his hand until it bled. He hit me away, and his sharp ring cut my cheek, leaving the scar. Elena came running into the kitchen, sobbing, while Mother lay bleeding on the floor.

 The asshole grabbed the kitchen knife and yelled at her, "Stop crying!"

 But she didn't stop, and he cut her face. When he calmed down, he called our private doctor and treated her on the cold kitchen floor. We sat like lifeless dolls beside our mother. That was the day I swore to myself I would kill him with my own hands, which I later did.

At the age of 17, he had already forced me to torture people several times, which made me cold. When I came home once and saw him drunk in his chair in his office in the house, I went with the knife still covered in the blood of the person I had tortured before. I turned his chair to face me, and he looked at me drunkenly, confused. I grabbed his throat and squeezed as hard as I could. His eyes widened, and I pressed the knife against his throat.

He struggled to breathe, trying to fend me off with both hands. I looked at him coldly and said icily, "For everything you've done to us." 

I slowly cut through his throat to make it painful. Blood sprayed out, and I let go of his throat, taking a step back.

 He desperately held his neck and tried to stand up, making pitiful sounds of pain. Blood sprayed everywhere as he fell lifeless to the ground. His blood splatters were on my face and my white shirt.

 At 17, I became a murderer for the first time. I didn't allow my sister or my mother to see the body. With a few men, we stashed it in the trunk, drove to a cliff, and threw it off. Neither of them shed a single tear, and neither did I. I became the boss then, and I had another villa built to leave the past behind. My mother and my sister managed to move on, but I couldn't.

I finished showering and stepped out, wrapping a towel around my waist. I dried my hair quickly with the towel and put on a t-shirt and sweatpants. Then, I headed upstairs to the office area of my room and sat down at the desk to work on the finances because like every night I struggle to sleep.