My name is Reyna. I'm a killer. My life's purpose was to earn my father's acknowledgment, to prove my worth as a mafia heiress. I craved his recognition, a place in his world. So I survived, endured it all. Eight: the stray cat, its blood on my hands. Ten: the buzzing of the electric chair. Fourteen: the violation, the shame I swallowed whole. He swore it would forge me into a weapon, earn his respect. Now? I've grown up to be exactly what he wanted me to be. And he discards me, sells me like chattel to some geriatric rival. I'm twenty, my kill count eclipses the hairs on that old fat man's head, and he expects me to play house? The joke writes itself. I'm a killer. He'll learn.