Chained to the Devil

"If you want to succeed, be strong." "Don’t ever let anyone piss on you. If someone dares to do it, put a bullet between their eyes without mercy, or you'll end up six feet under." "You're a woman, you shouldn't be dealing with that." "What is a woman doing in this world?" "I refuse to do business with a brat." I’ll never forget the impact those phrases had on me during my childhood. They shaped me as much as they shattered me. Women are said to be sweet, generous, fragile, and all that nonsense. But we all know that’s a lie, and it’s hard to get people to accept it—especially those who can’t overcome their own biases. People are naive enough to trust an image or appearance, so… why not use that to your advantage? For years, I heard the same garbage over and over: "You have no place in the criminal world." "You’re meant to be protected, not feared." I had no choice. I fought not to depend on anyone; the people you love always end up betraying you. No one ever wanted me for being a woman. I did everything I could to prove myself, but it’s hard when the world keeps throwing your supposed inferiority in your face without even giving you the chance to show your worth. I was always a failure, someone who inspired disgust and hatred. Since birth, I was told they wished I had been a boy. They reminded me that my qualities were worthless because they would never measure up to those of a man. I understood, from a very young age, that being a woman was an obstacle, and if I wanted recognition, I’d have to fight relentlessly. I wished I could’ve had the normal life of a twenty-year-old girl. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. Still, my life experience forged my character. I sigh as I stare at the reflection everyone seems to hate. My skin is dark. My hair is straight, jet-black, and falls just to my shoulders. My eyes are dark brown, almost black, almond-shaped. They don’t reflect hope or innocence. I wonder if anyone can see anything in them besides darkness. My body is tall and athletic, built through a lifetime of intense training. The features of my face and the color of my skin reveal my Saudi heritage. Both of my parents come from that magnificent country: Saudi Arabia. My mother died in a car crash when I was four. She burned to death after her car crashed into a tree and caught fire. I remember that day in the hospital like it was yesterday— The day they told me she was gone. At just four years old, I understood I would never see her again. Nothing would ever be the same. I had just been pulled out of childhood and thrown into adulthood. My mother left me alone, helpless. I was devastated, inconsolable. I remember screaming in pain and begging the doctors to give her back to me. I was just a lost little girl. My “father,” Khalid, is the leader of a criminal syndicate, known as one of the most powerful arms traffickers in all of Europe. His business is, and always will be, his most prized possession. He’s always wanted to be the most feared man in the country, to inspire terror in everyone. But he never truly reached his goals. I suppose that’s what led him to so much frustration and bitterness. I spent most of my childhood training in combat sports and weapon handling until I became a specialist in every discipline. I’m the only woman in my father’s organization. I carry out high-risk missions just like the men. But being accepted is incredibly difficult—especially when you’re the boss’s daughter. To both our allies and enemies, I’m known as a psychopath who enjoys pulling the trigger on anything that annoys her, without the slightest bit of remorse. I was born to be my father’s personal soldier. My entire life belongs to him. I’ve never tried to deny the ticking time bomb reputation that follows me. I’d rather be feared than approached. My provocative attitude has earned me a long list of enemies who would pay millions to kill me or see me on my knees— But none have ever dared to make a real move. I have no compassion for my opponents. My father despises such feelings. He associates them with weakness. He’s always told me: “All it takes is one minute of doubt to end up in a grave.” Don’t think that just because Khalid is around, no one has tried to hurt me—because that’s a lie. He’s not a protective father. We share blood, and that’s where it ends. He treats me like any other soldier. And in case of failure, the punishment is the same—if not worse. I guess you're wondering what my name is, right? Call me Inara.