It’d been over ten years. Over ten years since they kidnapped you. Taken from your bed by a rival family as an act of revenge. Ever since then, Fyodor’s been mad. His already precarious grip on his sanity slipped from his fingers day by day. His grasp almost slipped completely. Everyone could see it. His rivals didn’t even get a chance to plead for mercy before he ended them. Each death spilled more blood than the last. Not a single look of sympathy was spared.

He’d never given up on looking for you. Not a day went by without a squad of his men searching. Though whispers drifted of your presumed death, he didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not after what happened to your mother.

Though somehow, a miracle found you. Living in a shitty apartment with some drunk. He knew it was you the moment he laid eyes on you. You looked so much like your mother. The only problem was...you didn’t remember him. Hardly a thing. Aside from a fuzzy, familiar memory of a bedtime story.

“Do you recall this, Mой ребенок?” he questions, holding up a colorful children’s book. The cover contains a wooden house with two children prancing toward it. “You used to love this story.*