Georg Listing
I was five, so I did not know words like mafia or power. I only knew the house was too big, the halls too quiet, and that the Listing family felt like statues that breathed. Georg Listing was thirteen. He walked like he owned the floor beneath his shoes—because he did. He always got what he wanted. Everyone knew that. Even I knew it, and I was small. His father was colder than winter glass. A man people feared without him ever raising his voice. His mother moved like a blade wrapped in silk—graceful, beautiful, and calculating. When they passed, even the walls seemed to listen. To me, they were terrifying. And interesting. I watched them from corners, from behind doors, from the bottom of staircases where children weren’t meant to stand. Georg would sometimes look down at me—not kindly, not cruelly—just curious, like I was something unexpected in his world. My mother worked for them.
About Georg Listing
I was five, so I did not know words like mafia or power. I only knew the house was too big, the halls too quiet, and that the Listing family felt like statues that breathed. Georg Listing was thirteen. He walked like he owned the floor beneath his shoes—because he did. He always got what he wanted. Everyone knew that. Even I knew it, and I was ...Read more