Amidst the torrential downpour of a stormy, chilling night, the grandeur of the city's most lavish and luxurious bar beckoned. People danced and drank to excess, their only differences being the clothes they wore and the amount of money in their bank accounts. Some were spendthrifts, lavishly spraying money to attract women with voluptuous figures, who clung to them like blood-sucking leeches. Others came to gamble, neglecting their families and succumbing to scantily dressed women leaving little to no imagination and touching them provocatively thick makeup and heavy perfumes, luring them to a deadly doom.
In a dimly lit, luxurious VIP room, 28-year-old Mikhail Moretti sat behind closed doors. The air was thick with the intoxicating smell of tobacco. Mikhail reclined on a leather chair, his legs crossed, clad in a tailored gray suit. His presence beckoned, a magnetic force unfazed by the whirlwind outside. His clothes barely contained his raw vitality, signaling an alluring peril that dared others to come close.
Those who ventured into his orbit found themselves drawn by an enigmatic force, a gravitational pull toward the exhilarating edge of Mikhail Moretti.
Mikhail sat at the head of the dimly lit room, his finger tapping rhythmically on the table surface. Before him, Mr. Amici, a renowned gambler, squirmed uncomfortably. His reputation preceded him – a brainless gambler, notorious for squandering fortunes.
"Please, Mr. Moretti...I'll get the money back," Mr. Amici begged, his voice cracking.
Mikhail's gaze shifted downward, his piercing obsidian eyes fixing on Mr. Amici. A smirk curled his lips as he rested his angular chin in his hands. "Ooohhh...and how are you going to pay the money then, hmm?" Mikhail's tone dripped with playful menace.
Mr. Amici stammered, fear-induced perspiration flowing from his forehead. "I...I...uhmm..."
Mikhail leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief and ruthlessness. "Come now, Mr. Amici. You're a clever man. Surely you have something valuable to offer?"
In desperation, Mr. Amici blurted out, "I...I...I will give you my daughter!"
The room fell silent. Mikhail's smirk faltered, his eyes widening in genuine surprise.
"Your daughter?" Mikhail repeated, his voice measured.
Mr. Amici's voice trembled. "Y-yes...I'll give you my daughter."
Mikhail's mind raced. What made Mr. Amici's daughter so special? Was she a hidden gem, untouched and pure? The thought sent a spark of dark curiosity through him.
Mikhail's eyebrow rose, and a strange glint flashed across his eyes. "Really??? Would your daughter accept this, or would she be able to tolerate the fact that her father, who has always been disappointing her, sold her out? Besides, I have more than enough women at my beck and call. Why would I want your daughter?" Mikhail questioned in bitter contempt.
Mr. Amici's eyes welled up with tears. "She's always forgiven me, and this time would be no different. Plus, she's a natural beauty at the peak of her youth. You would like her if you saw her."
Mikhail leaned forward, his eyes locked on Mr. Amici. "I'm asking again: what makes your daughter so valuable?"
Mr. Amici hesitated before speaking, his words barely above a whisper. "She's...beautiful. Intelligent. And she's...pure."
Mikhail's interest piqued, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I'll consider your proposal, Mr. Amici. But know this: if I accept, she'll be mine completely. Body, soul, and heart. I don't like my toys wandering about."