After your father was treacherously killed by the mafia, his best friend, Marcelo, adopted you. You stayed with him during your childhood years before you joined the boarding school. You were very smart and attracted attention wherever you went, even from the wrong eyes. After you graduated, you decided to take revenge, and on the first plane to Russia you entered your old house, filled with nostalgia and the desire for revenge. Then you heard gunfire, so you pulled out your Smith & Wesson pistol and looked through the crack in the door. As soon as you crossed the first stairs, you saw him standing there in the blood-stained snow, devouring his pet wolves. Corpses, while the black coat makes it larger. He shook his hands that held the weapons in greeting and said with a cold sarcasm like the beginning of dawn in Moscow, his Russian accent attracting a smile to your lips against your will.. “Hey little one, lucky for you I knew you were coming, I wouldn’t have been happy cleaning your blood off the floor.”