Russian scorpion

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The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Leo finally shifted in his seat. His sharp eyes locked with the mafia leader’s, measuring him, trying to pierce through that smug smile. He ran a hand slowly through his dark hair, sighing, his jaw tightening as if each word weighed more than steel.

“Fine,” Leo said at last, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “I’ll help you. But on one condition.”

The brothers straightened in their seats, the youngest of them raising an eyebrow. The teenager peeked further from the doorway, sensing something important was about to unfold.

Leo leaned forward, his eyes burning. “If I fight for you, then you help me. When the time comes, I’ll have my own affairs, my own battles—and you will back me up. I’m not your dog. I fight for you, you fight for me. That’s the deal.”

For a moment, the room was silent again. Then, slowly, the mafia leader broke into a grin, leaning back and stretching his arms across the couch like a king on his throne. He let out a laugh—low at first, then louder, until the sound filled the living room.

“You’ve got guts,” the leader said. “Most men would be begging for my protection by now, kissing the ground at my feet. But you… you sit here and make conditions.” He smirked, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “I like it.”

The brothers exchanged glances, some skeptical, others faintly impressed.

“Then it’s settled,” the leader said, leaning forward, pointing at Leo like he’d already claimed him. “From today, you’re mine. You’ll fight under my name.” He clapped his hands together, decisive. “And since you’re mine, you’ll stay here.”

Leo’s head snapped up, confusion flickering across his face. “Here? In this house?” He gestured around at the massive villa, the gold accents on the furniture, the stiff posture of the brothers on the couches. “With you and your brothers breathing down my neck every hour of the day?”

The leader chuckled. “Exactly.”

Leo narrowed his eyes. “No.”

The word came sharp, absolute.

But the leader didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, his smirk never fading. “You don’t get to say no.”

Leo laughed, a humorless, tired laugh. “Of course I do. I can barely stand one man breathing down my neck, and you want me to live here with half a circus? Forget it.”

The brothers bristled, but the leader raised a hand, silencing them. His eyes locked on Leo, sharp and amused, as though this whole exchange was entertainment.

“You think I care what you want?” he said, voice low, dangerous, but strangely playful. “You’re too valuable to let wander around Istanbul alone. Do you have any idea how many mafias want your head on a plate? The second you walk out that door, someone will put a bullet in your back. If you want to live, you stay here.”

Leo’s lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “Great. So I’m a prisoner now.”

“Not a prisoner,” the leader corrected smoothly. “A guest.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting with mock sincerity. “A very important guest… who will be sleeping in the room next to mine.”

Leo froze, blinking once, twice. “…Next to yours?”

The leader smirked wider. “Yes. That way I can make sure you don’t run off in the middle of the night.”

Leo groaned, rubbing his forehead. “This is insane.” He looked around at the brothers, at the teenager peeking in again, at the curious young boy staring at him like he was some rare animal. “I’ll lose my mind in this house. You all are already driving me crazy and I’ve only been here ten minutes.”

That made the leader laugh, a full, rich laugh that echoed in the room. “Get used to it. My name’s Daniel, by the way.”

Leo tilted his head, his voice flat and dry. “Daniel.”

“Yes.” The leader’s smile widened. “Daniel. And Daniel does not accept no for an answer.”

Leo clenched his fists, his injured shoulder sending a stab of pain through him. He wanted to argue, to stand up and walk out, but he wasn’t stupid. Daniel was right—if he left now, he’d be dead before sunrise. Every mafia in the city would take their shot at him.

So he slumped back in the couch, glaring at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if I lose my sanity in this madhouse, it’s on you.”

Daniel smirked, satisfied, like a predator who had just cornered his prey. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “We’ll keep you busy enough that you won’t have time to lose your mind.”

Leo groaned again, already regretting his decision, while the brothers chuckled quietly, enjoying the sight of the infamous fighter finally outmaneuvered.

And somewhere deep inside, Leo knew—this was only the beginning of a new kind of battlefield.

After a few minutes

The corridors of Daniel’s villa stretched on forever—polished marble floors reflecting the golden chandeliers, heavy curtains swallowing the faint evening light, and portraits of serious-looking ancestors staring down from the walls as if they themselves were mafia bosses in another era. Leo followed Daniel, his gait slow, his shoulder still aching, his patience thinning with every step.

Finally, Daniel stopped in front of a door carved with intricate woodwork. He pushed it open with a smug grin.

“Your room,” he announced, stepping aside.

Leo peered inside. The room was large, too large—high ceiling, tall windows dressed in silk drapes, a bed big enough for three people, a desk, a bookshelf stacked with titles Leo doubted anyone in this house had ever read, and a faint smell of polished wood and lavender.

Leo squinted at Daniel. “Why does this look like a luxury hotel suite?”

Daniel shrugged, his smirk widening. “Would you rather I put you in the basement with the guards?”

Leo muttered something under his breath and walked inside, tossing his small bag onto the bed. He turned back and pointed a finger at Daniel. “But it’s next to your room, isn’t it?”

Daniel’s smirk turned into a grin. “Of course.”

Leo groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “This is going to be tired .”

Hours later, at the dinner table.

Leo quickly realized that the luxury of the villa wasn’t the true torture—the dinner table was.

The dining hall was massive, its long table covered in dishes that could feed an army: roasted lamb, steaming rice, glossy vegetables, platters of pastries. The chandeliers above shone so bright they made Leo’s eyes sting. But none of that compared to the disaster of the people sitting with him.

Directly across from him sat the fifteen-year-old girl, Daniel’s niece. Her chin propped in her palm, her eyes wide, practically sparkling as she stared at him without blinking. Every time Leo lifted his fork, she gasped like he’d just performed a magic trick.

Leo lowered his fork slowly. “…What?”

She giggled, whispering loudly enough for half the table to hear, “He’s so handsome.”

Leo almost choked on his food. “what—”

Daniel chuckled from the head of the table, raising his glass. “Careful, Leo. She might propose before the meal is over.”

The brothers laughed, their deep voices echoing in the hall. One of them nudged the other. “He looks like he wants to run.”

Leo did want to run. His jaw tightened, his temples pounding. He leaned back in his chair, glaring at the ceiling. “This is not what I signed up for.”

But then came the real twist—Daniel’s mother.

She was seated at Daniel’s right, an elegant woman in her late sixties, her silver hair wrapped in a silk scarf, her posture regal. But unlike her sons, her gaze toward Leo was soft. Too soft. She clapped her hands gently when Leo finally picked up his knife.

“Eat, my son,” she said warmly, her voice carrying the authority of a matriarch. “You’re too thin. These boys never eat enough, always running around with their guns and their silly wars.”

Leo froze. My son?

Daniel smirked. “Mother, he’s not—”

But she cut him off, waving a hand. “Nonsense. Look at him. Those tired eyes. That pale face. He needs soup.” She scooped a ladleful herself, plopping it into his bowl with the force of a general.

Leo stared at the steaming soup in disbelief. “…Thank you?”

“Drink it all,” she commanded, her smile tender but her tone leaving no room for argument. “Then you’ll have lamb. And bread. And fruit. You need strength. My sons always forget to eat properly.”

Leo blinked, then shot Daniel a murderous glare. Daniel only leaned back in his chair, smirking .

“Looks like you’ve been adopted,” Daniel whispered.

The brothers chuckled, their laughter rolling through the hall. The young boy at the far end imitated his grandmother’s stern voice, repeating, “Eat, my son!” and nearly fell off his chair laughing.

Leo clenched his jaw, raising his spoon with all the grace of a man walking to his execution. The fifteen-year-old girl clapped her hands softly like he’d just agreed to marry her.

By the time Leo finished the soup, his head was pounding. His shoulder ached. His nerves were frayed. He wanted to scream, to flip the table, to storm out of the villa—but instead, he sat there, trapped between Daniel’s smug grin, the girl’s starry-eyed stares, the brothers’ chuckles, and the mother’s suffocating kindness.

When dessert came, Leo buried his face in his hands and muttered, “I should have taken the basement.”

Daniel, hearing him, laughed so hard he almost dropped his juice.