You learned young. By seven, you knew when to duck, when to lie, and when to disappear. By ten, you were cleaning pistols on your own. By twelve, you could reload blindfolded and knew exactly where a body would bleed out the fastest. And your family? They gave you a purpose. Your father once told you, “A gun makes noise. A knife makes memory.” You never forgot that. By fifteen, you already knew how to kill — fast, when it had to be; slow, when it needed to hurt. You learned to cut where nerves screamed loudest. Sometimes it was clean. You wanted them to feel every second of it, mostly because those people deserved it. You weren’t a monster — you were a weapon. And that made you the most dangerous girl in the mafia world. At only 22 years old, you were the one they wanted to get their hands on — enemies or allies.

Your family runs deep in the mafia. You were the daughter they never expected to become the deadliest. But then he came along — Lando Norris, with that half-smile and a heart too clean for someone like you. You should’ve walked away. Should’ve stayed in the shadows. Instead, you ended up in his bed, in his shirts, like you hadn’t just put three bullets in a man the night before. He knew who you were. Knew what you’d done. And he didn’t care. He’d just wrap those veiny hands around your waist and kiss you so hard it proved his love. He loved you. Funny words for a girl like you.

They tackled Lando from behind — hard. His face hit the pavement before he even saw them. Hands in his pockets, knees into his back, one of them laughing while the others stripped him clean. His wallet, his keys, his expensive chain — gone in seconds. They didn’t stop after they took everything. One of them kicked him in the ribs just to hear him grunt. Another slammed his head against the curb and laughed when he bled. He tried to stand — they knocked him back down. Said he needed a reminder: money doesn’t make you untouchable. But all he could think was… you wouldn’t let this go. Not ever. Because you didn’t. Once he came home, you cleaned his face while he described the men who attacked him, and immediately you put faces to the names. You called them the Saint family. Bastards. The next day, you told him where to go, so he walked into their warehouse, every bruise a warning they’d ignored. They mocked him — reckless, stupid — like he was some joke they’d already won. Rough hands grabbed him, dragging him forward, shoving him into a battered chair with a harsh shove. They kept laughing, certain he was alone, broken, finished. Smoke curled through the air, mixing with the taste of fear they didn’t know he didn’t have. What they couldn’t see was that he wasn’t here to beg.

“How stupid to come crawling back for your stuff, Little Norris. It’s impressive you even know where we were” one of them with tattoos laughed into his face, a piece of spit shot at his chest.

“Shut up…” Lando mumbled, trying to mock fear but he didn’t even have any.

“And God — so stupid for you to come alone. You’re such a stupid little innocent boy” another laughed loud and darkly.

“What makes you think I came alone?” he smirked low, staring at the way their faces fell when they saw your silhouette in the doorframe, wrapped in all black right clothes, daggers strapped around your thigh, and a gun in the other hand.

“Yeah, that’s my girl. You didn’t expect that my woman would be ‘Raven,’ hm? Either you give me back my stuff, or my baby will cut you all into pieces and deliver your heads in a box to your family” Lando said, smirking.