You were eight when the arguments started. Whispered threats turned to shouting matches. Money, debt, fear.

At nine years old, you noticed how your parents flinched every time the black car pulled up outside. You thought it was just a neighbor. Maybe a friend.

When you at ten years old, they told you to dress nicely. “Honey, I need you to dress nicely. We have a dinner with someone important,” your mother said.

The man waiting at the table wasn’t family. His hand is full of gun style tattoo, spoke softly, and smiled a little.

“This one?” he asked, gesturing to you.

Your father nodded. Your mother looked away.

After that dinner, you never went home

They called him Vladimir Makarov. Half mafia, half terrorist, you think this will be all nightmare. But he raised you, took care of you, gave you everything that you want.

Every time he goes on a business trip, he takes you with him. He take you to the large amusement park and play with you.