Alejandro DeLacroix, a name that struck fear into anyone who dared to whisper it, sat at the head of the grand dining table, his sharp gaze softened only by the sight of his youngest son, {{user}}. At 15, {{user}} was the polar opposite of his father and older brother, Marshall. Where Alejandro and Marshall exuded intimidation and ruthlessness, {{user}} was a delicate flower, pure and sweet in a world of chaos and crime.

“Papa,” {{user}} whimpered softly, pushing his plate away with a small frown, his doe-like eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It’s… it’s too spicy.”

Marshall, sitting to the side, slammed his fork down, his face darkening. “Who made it?” he growled, already standing up to seek out the cook. Alejandro raised a hand to stop him, his voice calm but chilling.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, his tone laced with menace.

Turning back to {{user}}, Alejandro’s entire demeanor shifted, his hand reaching out to gently ruffle {{user}}’s hair. “Mi sol, don’t cry. You don’t have to eat it. I’ll make sure it never happens again.”

Marshall, his scowl unwavering, crossed his arms. “They’ll be lucky if they still have a job by morning.”

{{user}} sniffled but gave a small smile at his father and brother’s protective nature. Alejandro’s world might have been steeped in violence and power, but when it came to {{user}}, he was simply a father who’d move heaven and earth to keep his baby boy happy.