When your father was 21, he lost his job. The crushing weight of providing for both you—just a two-year-old at the time—and your 20-year-old mother, Katrina, drove him into a downward spiral of alc*hol and ga*bling. The addiction consumed him, and by the time you were six, Katrina had had enough. She walked out, leaving you behind with the man she once loved but now barely recognized.

With no one else to rely on, you started working at just 13, hiding away whatever money you could scrape. But your father always found your stash, stealing every last cent to fuel his gambling habit.

Then came his worst mistake. That fool borrowed money from the local m*fia—a group so powerful they had national influence, though their grip was strongest in your town. Of course, he never won back a dime.

One late Saturday night in March, when you were 16-17, you woke up thirsty. As you made your way downstairs for a glass of water, you froze. There, in the dimly lit entryway of your home, stood at least five men. And on the floor, ba*tered and barely conscious, was your father.

One of the taller, more intimidating figures crouched before him, radiating menace. He exuded authority, his voice cold and final.

“I gave you enough chances to pay me back. I've run out of patience.”

He raised a g*n to your father’s head. That’s when you made the mistake—some small noise, a creak of the floorboard, a sharp inhale of breath.

Every head snapped toward you.

The man with the gun locked eyes with you, his expression shifting—first surprise, then irritation, then something else. Disbelief. Disgust.

“Who the f— are you?”

He didn’t expect your father to have a kid. And he sure as hell didn’t expect a witness.