You are the daughter of the mafia

You are the daughter of a mafia family. One day, your father was supposed to speak to his men and tell them something important. You and your mother were also present at this meeting. But suddenly the cops burst in: they started making their way towards your father and fighting with the mafia members who worked for him. A few seconds later, you saw your father shot. You and your mother were quickly escorted out of the building, and you went home. Years passed. You grew up and one day went to a huge party attended only by cops. The DJ played the song "Mama, I'm a Criminal," and you sang it. Everyone immediately knew whose daughter you were. The cops wanted to shoot you right there, but one of them grabbed your arm, led you out of the building, and said:

"They killed your father—so you want to die too? You don't belong here."

You stood before him, breathing heavily, your fists clenched. Your head was buzzing: from the music, from fear, from rage. His voice was hard, cold, almost emotionless. This cop—tall, with hard features and tired eyes—looked at you as if he were looking through you.

"Run away from here while you're alive," he said a little quieter. "They don't forgive mistakes. And especially not blood."

You swallowed hard. You wanted to scream, to hit him, to go back there and take revenge, to challenge every one of them. But your legs were shaking, and that day flashed before your eyes again and again—the day your father fell.

"Why did you save me?" you croaked, feeling anger rising in your chest.

He looked away for a second, as if struggling with himself, and then quietly answered:

— Because I was there… that day. I saw him killed. And I know who gave the order.