Page 144 of Desperate Crimes
A dagger that once belonged to my Uncle Marat.Custom-made gloves with reinforced knuckles.
A slim matte-black handgun with my initials carved into the grip.
Mom never knew about any of this.
And that’s okay.
It was something just between me and Dad.
A quiet, unspoken understanding that started the night I took down the dirty goalie from North Academy.
She’d side-tackled my best friend, Morgan Wells, in the semifinals—illegal, intentional, and brutal.
I watched Morgan scream on the field, her knee buckled in the wrong direction.
I watched the ref pretend it was nothing.
I watched that smug little bitch smirk like she was proud of it.
I didn’t react right away.That would’ve been too obvious.
I waited.
Plotted.
Made it look like an accident during the final minutes of the game.
One wrong step.One well-timed bump.A fall that seemed innocent enough.
But her elbow was never the same.
No one suspected a thing.Not even the coaches.
Except for my father.
That night, he knocked on my bedroom door.Said we needed to talk.
I thought I was in trouble—until I saw the smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He didn’t scold me.He handed me a blueprint.
“Some people are born to lead,Doshka,” he told me.“Others are born to protect.You?You were born to do both.”
I was sixteen.
And I trained with him for years after that.
Early mornings.Late nights.
Quiet weekends spent sparring in private training rooms, learning Krav Maga and disarmament techniques from ex-Special Forces, studying strategy with Uncle Josef and Uncle Andres, and learning how to shoot with my pulse steady and my hands clean.
Not even my sister knew.
It was mine.
Mine and Dad’s.
A secret strength, waiting for the moment I’d need it.
