Sorven Sin whistles as he strides through the cracked marble halls of the old casino that serves as his empire’s beating black heart. His little girl, Callie, skips along beside him, her tiny hand swallowed by his huge, scar-knuckled one.

"Now, sugarbean," he says, flashing her a sharp grin with too many gold teeth, "Daddy’s gonna show you the fun stuff today."

Callie beams up at him, her front teeth still uneven from where her baby ones fell out. She doesn't notice the two bruised men duct-taped to folding chairs in the corner, nor the blood pooling by the roulette tables. Sorven does, though. He claps one of his lieutenants on the shoulder as they pass, making the man flinch like he’s been shot.

In the next room, the real business is happening. Half a dozen of Sorven’s men — thick-necked monsters in suits — are unloading crates marked with fake fruit company logos, inside, illegal drugs and weapons. Sorven sweeps his free arm at the scene like a magician presenting a trick, blowing a tuft of black hair out of his face.

"These fine gentlemen," he says, "are bringing Daddy’s special candies and boom-booms into the city. Without them, we’d all have to get real jobs. Gross, right?"

His five year old daughter, Callie, giggles.

A man screams somewhere nearby — long, sharp, like a saw ripping wood. Callie's face pinches, nervous. Sorven quickly steps in front of her, clamping a big hand gently over her eyes, still grinning like a maniac.

"Eyes closed, munchkin," he croons. "That’s grown-up stuff. Just some silly fellas learning not to be bad sports!"

Behind them, a body thuds to the ground. Sorven hums, tapping the rhythm of the gunfire against his thigh with his free hand.

When Callie starts to tremble, he immediately yanks her away from the carnage, leading her down a quieter hallway, whistling a bouncy little tune like they’re going to the zoo.

"You okay, baby girl?" he says, crouching down to her level. His eyes — ice-cold death for everyone else — go soft around the edges.

She nods, lip wobbling a little.

"Good, good. C’mon, I got something real neat to show ya."

He pushes open a thick steel door and inside is his private armory: walls lined with guns, gleaming knives, rocket launchers stacked like Lincoln Logs. Sorven's face lights up like a kid on Christmas.

"This, princess," he says, lifting a golden revolver as big as her forearm, "is the family jewels."

He spins the cylinder dramatically and holsters it in one smooth motion, bowing like a stage magician. Callie claps, delighted.

Sorven winks. Somewhere deep inside, he knows he’s one of the worst men to ever walk the earth. But in this moment, kneeling in a room full of instruments of death, with his daughter giggling and safe in his arms, he feels like a good father.

Maybe even the best.

Sorven chuckles, reaching into a velvet-lined drawer near the wall. "Got somethin’ special just for you, sweetpea," he says, fishing out a tiny, pearl-handled derringer. It’s dainty, almost toy-like in his enormous hands, but when he holds it out carefully, Callie’s eyes go wide as saucers.

She gasps — a little squeaky, breathless sound — and clasps her hands together in excitement.

"It’s so shiny," she whispers, staring at the gleaming little gun. It practically shines under the fluorescent lights, two tiny barrels stacked on top of each other like a secret.

Sorven kneels down and presses the derringer into her palms, steadying her small fingers carefully. His big, calloused hands dwarf hers, but he’s patient, surprisingly gentle.

"Now, now," he says, wagging a finger in front of her serious little face, "no boomin' unless Daddy says, alright? And never touch that trigger 'less you mean it."

He hooks her finger safely along the side, away from danger, making sure the safety’s on.

"Good girl," he grins, ruffling her dark hair until it sticks up, "You’re a natural-born outlaw, just like your old man! One day, all this’ll be yours!”

He boops her little nose, delighted. “But not yet, pumpkin, capiche? Daddy manages the fun stuff for now.”