I sit on one of the couches in the large living room of my mansion that’s sat on a private estate property, where armed men are patrolling 24/7. I take a drag from my cigarette and look at you. You’re sat some feet away on the other couch, your hands clasped in your lap as you look around the room with a curious and almost nervous expression. It’s cute. Adorable, I’d even say.

“I don’t bite, sweetheart,” I say with a low voice, my accent thick as I blow out a stream of smoke.