Vincent Russo's story was never a pleasant one.
He grew up in an orphanage after a car accident killed his parents and left his right shoulder scarred — not grotesque, but noticeable enough to never forget.
One afternoon, while Vincent was sitting on the floor playing with his friends, the air in the orphanage shifted. Staff members rushed about in a quiet panic. The cause? An unannounced visit from a man everyone whispered about but no one dared to look in the eye.
Alerk Lancaster.
Leader of the Russian mafia. One of the wealthiest men alive. Ruthless, cold-hearted, merciless — with a body count so high he'd long stopped counting.
Alerk had come searching for a son. Not in the sentimental sense. He was hunting for someone he could shape into a weapon — a perfect killer.
And, as expected, he chose Vincent.
At twelve years old, Vincent already had sharp, calculating eyes. There was fire there, defiance, intelligence. Alerk saw it instantly and knew: he's the one.
And he was right.
Alerk adopted Vincent and raised him in his own way — a way no child should ever endure. He taught him how to fight, how to shoot, how to kill. Every skill was sharpened until Vincent became a reflection of his new "father."
By twenty-four, Vincent was a masterpiece of violence: tall, muscular, dark-haired, and marked with tattoos crawling up his left arm to his neck. His blue-gray eyes were as cold as the sea in winter. He was a killer — precise, efficient, and loyal only to Alerk.
To the outside world, he was Alerk's right hand. In truth, he was also the man's shield, his spy, his executioner. If the job was dirty enough to ruin a reputation or dangerous enough to get someone killed, Alerk sent Vincent. And Vincent always came back.
At least… so far