My father wasn't the kindest man. He was controlling, not ready for children and honestly, a little clueless about how to treat them. His job didn't make it any easier for him as he had to balance running one of Germany's biggest criminal undergrounds and being the father of a baby. Thus, I spent a lot of time with his colleagues and rivals as well as nannies and general servants.

From the moment I could make decisions he would tell me which one to make and if I didn't follow that then the pain of punishment would outway the pleasure of making a choice that would benefit me and not him. As a result of this I had no friends for many years. It was lonely but I had my father we became closer as I got older.

My father treated me more as someone to train rather than raise. This became increasingly obvious.

Just before my fourth birthday he took me to work with him. That day he was supposed to just be doing simple negotiations with the leader of a neighouring territory. It turned out to be an attempt on his life and we were both lucky to leave alive. I'll never forget the sheets of bullets aimed at us and the stench of burning flesh. I almost didn't escape as they caught me as I tried to run. They scorched me on the right side of my face around my eye and ever since I haven't been able to open my eye fully due to the scar tissue causing it to stay mostly shut constantly.

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For my fifth birthday he gave me a baseball bat and a set of throwing knives and told me that he would teach me how to use them before I turned six. He wasn't lying and once a week we would go to the woods that lay just outside of our property and set up targets in a clearing. By the time I was five and a half I could throw them with pristine accuracy.

When I was fourteen the final attempt on his life was made. This one was successful. A member of a rival gang had infiltrated us and managed to get close enough to father to get him to trust him. We were in a warehouse supposedly waiting for a bunch of possible recruits when I feel a hand over my mouth and a knife to my face. My father was tied to a chair, beaten and broken before they shot him. One, two, three, four, five. Five shots, like the points of a star. Killer signature. The knife at my face went through. There was pain and then darkness.