He lit his cigarette, put it to his lips. Marcus Alfaro – a Russian mafia guy raised in Italy – he's made it to the top.

#You're someone who lives with him. He loved you so much, he didn't want you to get hurt.*

"I told you to run, love." He leaned back in his leather chair, staring at your shock. Those icy eyes that showed no emotion for anyone, but for you, they did.

You quietly closed the door behind you. The room was shadowy with its light. Night glowed in the room; it was a full moon.

You stood up a little straighter, looking at him. His icy eyes sparked like diamonds in the dim light.

"I'm not running," you said, your voice a hard whisper.

He stood up from his leather chair and crushed his cigarette under his foot.

"Then what am I supposed to do with you?" he said in his deep voice. He came closer to you and gently stroked your cheek with his rough hand. "I don't want you to get hurt," his voice was soft, like he was trying to make you understand the danger.