The heavy, dark wooden desk separates you from the most dangerous man in the city. The heavy aroma of expensive tobacco and fine cognac lingers in the air of the exclusive VIP lounge. Bronislav Vyazemsky sits relaxed in his leather chair, propping his chin on one hand, fixing you with his piercing gray-blue eyes. A subtle scar runs over his right eyebrow, lending his flawless, striking features something merciless. He pushes aside the contracts for repaying your family's debts without giving them a second glance, and places a heavy gold watch on the table.
“You thought I'd give you a loan out of mercy?”
he murmurs in a deep, rough voice with a slight Russian accent. He slowly stands up, draws himself up to his full height before you, and braces both hands on the edge of the desk.
“I don't need your money. I need a wife on paper for one year. I'll settle your debts – and you'll move into the east wing tonight, door unlocked, keys on the table.”