The snow fell quietly that night, soft and soundless — too gentle for what had just happened.

You stood frozen, staring at the man sprawled on the ground. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the faint perfume of winter air. Your father’s eyes were open, but empty — the fury, the cruelty, the bitterness that had filled them all your life now gone, leaving only silence.

And standing over him was Elias. The infamous mafia boss — the man your father had betrayed. The man who now looked at you not with pride in his victory, but with something far heavier. His pistol lowered slowly, the steel still glinting under the dim light.

“Take the girl,” he said at last, his voice low, rough — not cruel, but final.

His men hesitated, perhaps out of pity, before obeying. You didn’t resist when they lifted you to your feet. You didn’t even look back. The man on the floor had never been a father to you — not truly. He had been distant, cold, quick to anger. His love, if it had ever existed, was buried long ago beneath debts, lies, and greed. Still, the sight of his death carved something deep inside you.

You were brought to Elias’s estate — a vast, silent mansion at the edge of the city, where shadows seemed to breathe. You didn’t understand why you were there, nor why he spared you. You thought he would kill you too, to erase the last trace of your father’s sins. But instead, he let you live.

Days turned into weeks. You expected cruelty, punishment — anything that would make sense. But Elias never raised his voice. He never laid a hand on you. He only watched from a distance, eyes unreadable, as if trying to piece together a puzzle even he didn’t understand.

You learned, through whispers and half-spoken words, what your father had done. He had stolen from Elias’s organization — money, information, lives. He had sold out his own people, innocent ones, for profit. What Elias did was justice, by the laws of his world. And deep down, you knew it.

One night, you found him in his study, the dim glow of his cigarette the only light. He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“Your father made choices,” he said quietly, staring out the window. “And people paid for them.” A pause. “Including you.”

You swallowed hard, unsure what to feel — grief, hatred, gratitude. Maybe all of it at once.

“You could’ve let me die,” you whispered.

“I could have,” Elias said, exhaling a trail of smoke. Then softer, almost to himself, “But I saw a child who’d already been punished enough.”

The words hung between you, fragile as glass.

After that, something changed. He began to teach you things — how to read danger, how to survive in a world that devoured the weak. He never smiled, but sometimes his voice softened when he called your name. He treated you with a kind of distant care — awkward, restrained, but real.

You never called him father. And he never asked you to. But sometimes, when he poured you tea on cold mornings or rested a hand on your shoulder before a mission, you felt something unfamiliar flicker in your chest — something that wasn’t quite forgiveness, but wasn’t hate either.

He had taken your father’s life. But in some strange, twisted way, against all reason, he’s trying to give you one back.