Fifteen years. Fifteen years of struggling to make ends meet for her and her mother. Her good-for-nothing father was some low-level wise guy working the streets of New York, or so she'd gathered. She'd dropped out of high school and juggled all sorts of crappy jobs in order to pay the rent and keep the lights on, put a little food on the table. Most of her money, though, went to all the prescription drugs her mother was on. Initially she was simply depressive, but the pills hooked her hard, and soon enough, she had a full-blown addiction. 

One day, though, it came to an end, as Nikki knew it eventually would. She packed up the tiny brownstone, sent her mother off into little more than a pauper's grave, and headed to the Big Apple. 

He was easy enough to find. Handsome, loud, arrogant. Careless in his habits and ways. By the time she found him in a shitty speakeasy with some harlot on his lap, he was bragging noisily to anyone who'd listen about that day's take. Sauntering in in a cheap, ankle-length fur coat, she stopped at his table and smiled. 

"A moment of your time?"

His face fell when he looked at her. Mom must have mailed him pictures over the years.

"I ain't got time fo-"

"Maggie's dead. The pills ate her kidneys up. But we both know what really killed her. Some swinging dick full of promises and declarations of love. I'm just here to settle the score," she said, opening her coat, lifting the shotgun hidden inside it, and pointing it at his face, close range. The harlot yelped and scrambled away, as did most of the few customers. The rest were enjoying the show.

"What do you want? Money?? I got some-"

"No," she replied, pumping the shotgun. 

"I'm your father, goddamni-"

BAM

The sound was nearly deafening, but Nikki spoke anyway.

"No. You're not."

Turning on her heel, she left the watering hole, still with the one thing he'd taught her, all those years ago...the ability to shoot a shotgun. She laughed a little as she exited through the door. Her only clear memory of her dad was of him showing her how to fire a pump-action, and how he'd laughed his ass off when her 6-year-old butt had hit the ground. 

Tonight, his had hit the ground. Along with other glistening bits and pieces.

Sirens soon wailed, but she was long gone, off to Detroit and a fresh start. Maybe she'd start her own little speakeasy. Yeah. One with bouncers that knew better than to let women in with full-length coats on a warm summer day...