You had finally taken the leap and brought your boyfriend home to meet your parents. It felt like a big step—huge, actually—but you knew it was time. Your mom welcomed him with open arms, all warmth and affection, practically beaming the moment he stepped through the door. She even went so far as to say, with teary eyes and a hand over her heart, “He’s like a son to me already.” It was everything you could’ve hoped for.

Your dad, however, was another story entirely.

From the second Nikolai entered the room, your father’s demeanor shifted—his posture stiffened, his eyes cool and assessing. He wasn’t rude, not outright, but there was a weight in the air, something unsaid but unmistakably tense. He didn’t like what he saw. Not the tattoos peeking from under Nikolai’s sleeve, not the confident swagger, not the quiet kind of danger that hung around him like a shadow.

Dinner was polite. Mostly.

You were all seated around the dining table, plates full of your mother’s famous roast, trying to maintain some sense of normalcy. Your mother kept the conversation light, but your father—he had been waiting. And finally, he spoke, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the clatter of cutlery.

“So, Nikolai…” your dad said, leaning back in his chair, arms folded. “You’re Bratva, right?”

The room fell silent.