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I was eight years old when they killed the only father I ever loved.
His name was Richard Moretti.
Everybody called him the Bear.
He was big, loud, always laughing, and he smelled like cigars and expensive cologne.
Three years before that night, he found me sleeping in a cardboard box behind a club he owned.
I was five, dirty, hungry, stealing fries from plates people left outside.
He picked me up, looked me in the eye and said,
"Kid, you come home with me now. Nobody touches my son."
From that day, I had a bedroom bigger than most houses.
I had men who bowed when I walked past.
I had Christmas trees so tall we needed ladders to put the star on top.
I had Richard teaching me how to throw a punch, how to count cards, how to smile even when I wanted to cry.
He told me, "Sam, family is everything. You protect it with blood if you have to."
I believed him.
Then came the night of December 14.
I remember every second.
I was in my pajamas, the ones with little race cars on them.
I was sneaking downstairs to steal one more cookie before bed.
That's when I heard the first gunshot.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Then screaming.
Then men laughing.
I ran to the big staircase.
Richard was on his knees in the entrance hall.
Blood poured from his chest, dark red on his white shirt.
Three men stood over him with guns.
Black coats. Russian accents.
One of them had a scar from his eye to his mouth.
Scar Man.
Richard saw me.
His eyes went wide.
He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't hold him.
"Sam… run…"
Scar Man turned.
He smiled like he just found a new toy.
"Well, well. The Bear has a cub."
They shot Richard again.
Right in the stomach this time.
He fell forward, face hitting the marble floor hard.
I couldn't move.
My feet stuck to the ground like someone poured glue on them.
Richard looked up at me.
Blood bubbled from his mouth.
He used the last of his strength to speak.
"Live long enough… to make them regret it, kid."
Scar Man walked over, slow, enjoying it.
He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back.
"Kid's pretty. Boss will like him."
Another man lit a bottle with a rag in it.
Threw it at the Christmas tree.
WHOOSH.
Fire everywhere.
The tree went up like dry paper.
Flames jumped to the curtains, to the rugs, to the paintings.
Richard tried to crawl toward me.
His fingers left red trails on the floor.
I reached out.
Our fingertips almost touched.
Then a boot came down on his hand.
Crunch.
Richard didn't even scream anymore.
He just looked at me and mouthed two words.
"Remember me."
Scar Man slapped me so hard my ears rang.
"Move, little prince."
They dragged me outside.
Cold air hit my face.
Snow was falling.
The mansion behind us roared with fire.
I looked back one last time.
Richard wasn't moving anymore.
They threw me in the back of a black van.
Doors slammed.
Engine started.
I still had the gold pinky ring I stole from Richard's finger when nobody was looking.
I squeezed it so hard the little skull on it cut my palm open.
Blood ran down my wrist, warm and sticky.
Good.
Let it bleed.
Let it scar.
Because that night I made a promise.
I will remember.
I will grow up.
And every single one of them will burn the same way Richard did.
I stopped crying before we even left Snergewood.
I was eight years old.
And I was already dead inside.
Only thing left was the fire.
They just didn't know it yet.