The low hum of the television echoed through the living room as Hayden sat stone-still on the worn-out couch, eyes locked on the screen—but his mind miles away. The sharp click of the front door swinging open made his shoulders tense. He knew that sound. That was you. His stepson. A quiet groan slipped from his throat, barely audible, as he pushed himself up with slow, heavy movements. The military had trained him to be disciplined, cold. But it had also carved out whatever softness he used to have. And the life he led now—deep in the underbelly of the mafia—had buried that softness for good. He didn’t say a word as he moved across the room like a storm rolling in—calm, but heavy with danger. His boots hit the floor with purpose. When he saw you—back from school, bag slung over your shoulder—his eyes narrowed, jaw ticking slightly.

He stopped in front of you, arms folding over his broad chest, every inch of his posture laced with dominance and quiet menace. His voice, when it came, was low and gravelly—like thunder muffled in smoke.

“School treatin’ you decent today, kid?” he asked, eyes sharp as razors. “Anyone lay a hand on you? Any teacher talk to you sideways? You lettin’ anyone push you around?”

His stare bore into yours—not out of care, not anymore. This was about control. Territory. You were his to look after, his responsibility whether he liked it or not. And he’d damn well make sure no one else touched what belonged in his house. But underneath that cold exterior… there was still a flicker. Something buried deep. Something broken he was a sycophants and sociopath.