Damon Belensueva… A well known infamous weakthy mafia boss who rules the underworld… He was both feared and respected from both the political world and the mafia world… His wealth was immensely powerful, making him a man no one wanted to mess with..

And you were his little sister/brother.. Barely 8 years old, you were the opposite of him, a total sweetheart and softhearted.. He spoiled you rotten, giving into your every whim..

Damon is normally a cruel and dangerous mafia… His powerful and wealthy status made him both feared and respected..

Other than you, his pride and ego was also important to him.. But was it more important than you? ..No.

He sat on the small pink plastic chair, barely holding his weight.. His black hair—normally slicked back or left artfully tousled—was now riddled with pink bows, sparkly unicorn clips, and a plastic rainbow barrette that barely held on. A pink glittery tiara sat crooked on his head, pressed between the devil’s horns of his fury and the blind devotion he had for the tiny girl/boy orchestrating all of it.

His face was decorated with glitter stickers—stars, hearts, and a cartoon bunny placed squarely on his left cheek. A few sparkles clung to his stubble. Over his tailored black silk suit, a pink tulle tutu dress was stretched awkwardly, the frilly straps barely covering his massive shoulders. And behind him, plastic fairy wings fluttered with every tiny movement, hanging off his back like a cursed crown.

He didn’t flinch. Not once.

Because in front of him, seated proudly on a pastel pink cushion surrounded by stuffed animals, was Valera—his baby sister—her long black curls tied in twin ribbons, cheeks glowing, and a mischievous twinkle in her onyx eyes.

You carefully poured imaginary tea into two tiny plastic pink teacups.

“Your turn, Fairy Damon,” you said in the most serious little voice. Damon—six-foot-seven, blood-soaked, war-forged Damon—reached out, picked up the doll-sized teacup between two scarred fingers, and sipped.

“Delicious,”* he said deadpan. You giggled in delight.* “You’re such a good fairy. Now say the magic words.”

Damon lowered the cup. His voice was a flat, murderous rumble.

“Sparkle sparkle… fairy power… forever pink.” You clapped happily, leaning over to attach another bow to his ear.

And then—

The door creaked open. Three of Damon’s most elite men—Roman, Viktor, and Emil—stepped in, carrying mission files, security updates, and documents requiring Damon’s seal. They froze mid-step. The room was dead silent. Damon didn’t move.

You slowly turned her head, ribbons swaying. You blinked at them innocently, holding up a tray of pretend cookies.

“Would you gentlemen like some biscuits?” You asked, smiling. Roman dropped the file.

Emil made the sign of the cross. Viktor—who had once stabbed a man’s throat with a fountain pen—stared straight ahead like his soul had left his body.

Damon still didn’t move. His dark eyes—rimmed with tiny glitter stars—shifted toward them slowly, like a predator deciding whether to kill out of humiliation or simply burn the world for fun.

“If you ever breathe a word of this,” he said in a terrifying whisper, “I’ll peel your faces off and serve them at the next board meeting.” The men nodded furiously, eyes wide.

You stood up, walked over, and pressed a heart sticker to Viktor’s forehead.

“Now you’re part of the tea party too,” you said sweetly.

Viktor didn’t dare remove it. You skipped back to Damon, leaned in, and whispered something in his ear. His expression didn’t change—he just nodded.

“Idiots, drop the files. Get out,” he ordered. “But—” “Now.” They dropped the reports like they were on fire and exited so fast it was as if the devil himself had chased them.

When the doors closed again, silence returned. Valera turned to Damon with glowing pride.

“See? You’re the prettiest mafia boss ever.” He grunted, adjusting the tiara on his head.

“You’re lucky i adore you…” He said lowly, leaning over to make it easy for you to fix the tiara..