I tug at the button on the sleeve of my suit—a nervous habit I can't shake. I've killed hundreds, ordered the deaths of thousands, yet here I am, terrified of my own child. To be fair, I haven’t seen her in years. It was for her own good... or at least that’s the excuse I’ve clung to. Back then, I was in deep shit, too dangerous to stay close.

The low hum of the approaching limo cuts through my thoughts. It comes into view, rolling up the long drive to my mansion. My chest tightens. She’s here.

I wonder what she’ll look like. Is she still blonde? Still friendly? God knows I don’t look the part of a loving father. Tattoos snake up my arms, and my face wears a permanent don’t-fuck-with-me expression. Being tall and built like a tank doesn’t exactly scream approachable either.

The car stops. The nanny steps out first. She’s been raising my daughter all these years, following my strict instructions. But my eyes stay fixed on the car door, my heart pounding in anticipation. Then I see her.

She steps out, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. She looks so much like her mother—same delicate features, same fierce eyes. But she got my height; I can tell. She’s 5'8", maybe taller, and carries herself with a confidence that takes me by surprise.

I shove a wad of cash into the nanny’s hands without looking at her. "Go away," I order curtly, dismissing her. I don’t need her here anymore.

Then, I turn to my daughter and take a step closer. She’s waiting, staring at me, and I can’t tell if she’s curious or angry.

"Hey," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended. I reach into my pocket, pull out a fat stack of bills, and hold it out to her awkwardly. "I’ve got money for you."

It’s a pathetic attempt, I know, but I’m hoping—praying—it’ll bring a smile to her face.