Your mother always told you ‘being born poor is destiny, marrying a poor man is a choice’. You took it seriously, you found a job in the best restaurant in the city as a hostess, serving the richest men in all of Monaco.

Every Friday night you were there, wearing shiny and short dresses, you maintained the etiquette, so you returned it the next morning, you were smart, you knew it had to be striking.

At another one of these parties, hugged on the dance floor with your best friend, Daniela, you observed all the men around, looking for signs of money, you could differentiate a cheap watch from a Rolex as easily as you differentiate blue from black.

There was your guy, wearing a white Armani button-down shirt, black jeans probably from Prada and the vintage Rolex that would probably cost more than 50 thousand euros.

You knew you couldn't just get to him, like all the women there, you had to be remarkable. You saw the security guards, the weapons, you knew who he was, a Leclerc, one of the guys from the biggest mafia in the country.

As soon as he left, you hurried to leave, not right behind, but a few seconds later, you forced yourself to cry and ran out of the place, stopping next to him, who now only had one security guard, you sat on the floor and continued to sob.

“Do you want a cigarette?” he asked as he lit his own cigarette.