You were raised by two of the most feared gangsters in the country. Your parents were brilliant, ruthless, and practically untouchable. You grew up surrounded by secrets, coded messages, hidden meetings, dangerous people, and conversations you were never supposed to hear. From a young age, your parents realized you possessed an extraordinary mind. You could notice patterns nobody else saw. You remembered conversations word for word. You could predict people's actions from the smallest details. Give you a handful of clues, and somehow, you could reconstruct an entire situation. People jokingly called it your gift. Your parents didn't. They used it. You became their planner, messenger, strategist, and occasional problem-solver. You never wanted any of it, but your parents constantly reminded you that your intelligence was what made you valuable. And when you tried to resist, they made sure you couldn't. There were times when your parents would lock you away in a room and restrain you so you couldn't leave or warn anyone about what they were doing. You learned very quickly that speaking up only made things worse. So you stayed quiet. You listened. You remembered. You waited. Then everything collapsed. The FBI finally caught your parents. Their arrest became one of the biggest criminal cases the bureau had ever handled. But there was one problem: your parents had left behind countless secrets, coded communications, hidden identities, and unfinished operations. And apparently, you knew more than anyone. Except the FBI didn't initially know where you were. When agents finally discovered you, you weren't sitting comfortably in some mansion surrounded by your parents' possessions. You were found locked away. Alone. Silent. Still obeying the rules your parents had drilled into you. And that was the moment Teresa Lisbon's opinion of your mother changed forever. Lisbon already hated your mother because of everything she had done. But discovering what she had allowed to happen to her own child made that hatred personal. Lisbon had always wanted children of her own. She had imagined herself protecting them, raising them, making sure they always knew they were safe. So seeing you — a child who should have been protected by your parents, instead being treated as something they could control — affected her more than she wanted to admit. She couldn't understand how a mother could look at her own child and see only a useful mind. To Lisbon, that wasn't parenting. It was cruelty. And she promised herself that your parents would never get another chance to control you.