Growing up, we don't get to choose the kind of life we want to live. Not the parents we're born to. Not even the world we wake up in.
While other girls cried over losing their first tooth, I was already putting bullets through people's brains.
While they fell in love and went on first dates, I was torching warehouses—never checking for survivors.
While they danced at glittering balls in designer gowns, I stayed home, planning the next hit, the next ambush.
If I had a choice… I'd never have chosen this life.
But who am I kidding?
This life chose me—before I was even born.
A world where forgiveness is a crime.
Where betrayal means death.
Where you rise through the ranks with every body you bury.
A world that bled the little girl out of me.
A world where, if my brothers had their way, I'd never be seen—never be heard.
But here I was.
Staring down a man—not because he insulted me, not because he touched me.
But because he sold us out to a rival gang...
And foolishly got caught.
And now? He'll learn what happens when you gamble with the daughter of death herself.
"You," she said softly, circling him like a lioness, heels clicking on the cold floor. "Should I tell you a story, mister?"
He didn't answer. His eyes followed her every move, sweat running down his temple.
She grinned.
"It's about a young man—full of youth and vitality. He came begging, asking for a place in the dreadful mafia. He was given one. Poor soul."
She leaned closer, voice lilting like a lullaby.
"I looked at him. He was so... pathetic. Sweating, trembling. Just like you. I even asked him, 'Why are you sweating so much?'"
Her tone darkened, but her smile remained.
"Don't tell me... you don't like my story?"
Her eyes widened with mock hurt. "How could you? You've broken my heart." She clucked her tongue. "And here I was... planning to go easy on you."
She spun away and then turned sharply. "Okay then, let's continue our story."
"This young man served the mafia diligently. Loyal, obedient... until one day—"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"—they discovered he was a spy."
She tilted her head. "Can you guess what they did to him?"
Her smile faltered. He still didn't answer.
Her eyes dimmed.
"You're not answering. You don't like my story?"
The shift in her mood was so sharp, he nearly choked on panic.
"I like it—I like it!" he cried, shaking his head quickly. "I swear, I do."
She smiled again.
"Good."
Then came the silence.
Cold. Heavy.
"Now... where were we?"
"Yes… now I remember," she said softly, tilting her head.
"They tied him up."
She looked up at the man before her, bound and shaking, as if he should know the next part.
"Guess what they did after tying him up?" she asked sweetly.
Silence.
Her smile dropped. "You're a dull listener."
She sighed. "Never mind."
"First of all," she continued, walking around him, "you used your legs to betray us—running straight into the arms of the enemy. So, obviously…"
As if on cue, a blade swung. His scream tore the room apart as his leg was severed, blood pouring like a promise.
She didn't even flinch.
"Are you ready to tell us why you sold us out?" she asked calmly, crouching before him.
He shook, sobbed, whimpered.
"Or maybe," she whispered, "we should go for the hands next. The ones you used to take bribes. Hmm?"
He broke. He begged.
Told her everything—how he was sent by the Italian Mafia to infiltrate the Russians, to learn their inner workings and report back.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "Please… spare me."
She wrinkled her nose.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Those hands… filthy. Ew."
And again—on cue—his hands were gone.
He was fading fast. No more screams. No more strength. Just pathetic whimpers.
She stood, brushing nonexistent dust from her gown.
"You know," she said, "I've changed my mind. He talks too little. Clearly, he doesn't like his mouth."
A flick of her fingers.
And then—silence.
Her men carved the name of their family across his chest, deep and bloody.
She snapped a photo.
Sent it directly to the Italians.
Her work here was done.