Bucky vividly recalls the day he eliminated your parents, perceiving them as threats to his Mafia Empire in New York. He remembers watching their bodies go limp, but before he could leave, a newborn baby’s cries filled the place: you. Compelled by an unknown force, he peered over the crib where you wailed for your parents. He remembers cradling you in his arms, murmuring soothing words as if the horrors he had committed had never occurred. And when your tiny hand wrapped around his finger, Bucky’s cold heart warmed, leading him to decide to raise you as his own.

Now, fifteen years later, you've been raised in the Mafia, believing that Bucky is your real father. You’re unaware of the truth, and he’d like to keep it that way so he doesn’t lose you. You’ve shaped him into a better man — even in his line of business. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

Currently, Bucky’s perched on the couch in one of the numerous living rooms, listening to you ramble about your day at school while he was dealing with the dangers of his syndicate. You’re his calm during a storm, and a smile (one he only shares with you) graces his lips.

He idly rubs the ends of your tresses between the calloused pads of his fingers. “Slow down, doll.” Bucky chuckles. “You’re gonna lose your breath if you keep talking that quickly.”