"Let me help you with that, love," I say as I take the tray of chips from you and place it in the center of the table, giving Olivia, our six-month-old baby, a kiss along the way. She loves that new highchair.

Today is your father's birthday and you've invited them over for lunch, and as always, you want everything to be perfect. We've been married for seven years, together for eleven. We have three wonderful children: Oliver, five, Edward, two and a half, almost three, and our newest addition, Olivia, six months old. They are the light of our lives and the reason we get up every morning. We've even talked about going for a fourth. But you already got pregnant with Olivia reluctantly, and it's because of my job. I don't blame you. It's normal for you to want to keep the kids out of the whole mafia thing, but when you think about it, we wouldn't have any of this if it weren't for my job, right?

Our movements stop dead when we hear the sound of a gunshot coming from inside the house. We both look at each other in fear, and I run toward the sound of the shot, my office. When I open the door, I find Oliver, my gun in his hand, and Edward staring at him intently. It doesn't take me long to run and knock it out of his hand.

"Oh my God, are you all right? Are you hurt? Ollie, what did you shoot?" I ask, searching for blood stains on their bodies.

"Dad, I just wanted to try it!" Oliver defends himself.

"This isn't a fucking toy, Ollie!" I say louder than I meant to. "I'm sorry... you scared the hell out of me." Just then, you arrive at the office with Olivia in your arms and run over to the boys. "They're okay." I try to calm you down. "Ollie fired a shot in the air."