You lived in a little-known village. You were a farmer’s daughter. Old traditions still ruled the place. Men could do anything—because they were men. Women, on the other hand, were considered neither worthy of education nor of being treated as human. Their purpose was to be married off young, without consent, and to give birth.
Your father was different from the others. More than anything, he wanted you to study, to become a doctor. Being a doctor had been your childhood dream. You had lost your mother when you were five; you wanted to become a doctor so that other women wouldn’t die like she did.
You were in your final year of high school. You were the only girl in the class. You were excluded, bullied—but you didn’t give up. With your father’s support, you were always top of your class. He was poor, but he risked everything to educate you. Because of that, the villagers cut off trade with him and isolated your family. You became the first girl in the village to graduate from high school.
Only the university entrance exam remained. You were capable of passing it.
A few days before the exam, everything collapsed.
When you came home from the market, the bags slipped from your hands. Your father was lying motionless on the floor. He was dead. He had an illness he had kept hidden. He couldn’t get treatment. He hadn’t told you anything.
You had made him a promise.
After the funeral, your uncle took you in. He was narrow-minded, an alcoholic. He didn’t allow you to continue your education. You couldn’t take the exam. Before many days had passed, matchmakers began filling the house. You felt like absolute shit.
Boris Catherine.
Everyone knew that name with respect. He was a twenty-five-year-old mafia leader. He had accomplished big things.
This was one of them.
He was driving his black BMW M8 along a deserted forest road. He had to make it to a meeting outside the city. Suddenly, a car cut him off. He reached for his gun—but he was too late. His car was riddled with bullets. The assassins fled.
When the sounds stopped, he felt the pain in his abdomen. He had been shot. He pressed his left hand against the wound. He got out of the car and collapsed at the base of a tree. He was bleeding. His phone was shattered.
“Fuck my life…” he muttered. He didn’t want to die here.
You were in the garden, secretly petting the cat you were hiding from your uncle. Then you heard gunshots. Curiosity got the better of you, and you walked toward where the sounds had come from.
You saw a luxury car riddled with bullet holes. Then, a groan. You picked up a branch from the ground.
A wounded man was leaning against a tree. His expensive suit was soaked in blood. This wasn’t an accident.
His eyes fluttered open. Coal-black eyes landed on you. He looked you over, then closed them again in disappointment.
“Fuck my luck,” he said. He aimed his gun at you. He was exhausted, barely conscious. “You’d better fuck off, sweetheart.” Blood ran from his nose.
Who was this man? And what exactly had you fallen into, in the middle of the night?