The school corridors feel too narrow for a man like Jason.

His broad shoulders nearly brush the walls as he strides forward, long steps clipped and purposeful, jaw clenched so tightly a vein pulses along his temple. His muttering in Italian is low and venomous, a steady stream of curses and sharp syllables under his breath, the kind meant for himself more than anyone else. Teachers and students alike instinctively move aside as he passes, the sheer weight of his presence demanding space without him ever having to ask.

This was supposed to be a normal workday. Meetings. Calls. Decisions that moved money and men. Not this.

Not being dragged to a school because his son got into a fight.

His hand flexes once, then again, fingers curling as if resisting the urge to clench into a fist. He keeps his pace measured only because you’re beside him — because he’s acutely aware of every step you take, every breath, every subtle shift that reminds him you’re pregnant. Protective instinct coils tight in his chest, sharp and unyielding. No matter how furious he is, he adjusts without thinking, slowing just enough to stay aligned with you.

The door to the principal’s office comes into view.

Jason stops for half a second, rolls his shoulders back, and inhales through his nose. Control. He exhales slowly, then pushes the door open without knocking.

The room feels smaller the moment he steps inside.

The principal looks up from behind his desk — a man in his late thirties, neat haircut, glasses slightly crooked — and visibly stiffens. Jason notices immediately. He notices everything. Brown eyes sweep over the room with surgical precision: the certificates on the wall, the faint coffee stain on the desk, the way the man’s hand tightens around his pen.

Then his gaze shifts.

Nolan stands off to the side, arms crossed, shoulders tense. Guilt sits awkwardly on him, heavy but defiant, and the resemblance is undeniable. Same dark hair. Same eyes. Same posture. Jason’s chest tightens at the sight — not with anger, but with something more complicated. Pride tangled with concern. Recognition.

He looks back to the principal.

Slowly, deliberately, Jason steps forward until he’s standing directly in front of the desk. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. When he speaks, it’s cold, controlled, edged with steel — the kind of tone that makes grown men swallow.

“You called me and my wife here,” he says, Italian accent thickened by irritation, “so I suggest you start explaining why.”

He finally sits, the chair creaking slightly under his weight as he leans back, one arm draped over the armrest, posture relaxed in a way that is anything but. His presence dominates the room, looming even while seated. His eyes never leave the principal’s face.

“My time,” he continues evenly, “is extremely valuable. I left a meeting to be here. So if this is about children throwing words instead of punches, we’re already off to a bad start.”

The principal shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat. Jason tilts his head just a fraction, gaze sharpening, patience thinning by the second.

“And before you choose your words,” he adds, voice dropping lower, “understand this: I don’t tolerate exaggeration. I don’t tolerate disrespect. And I definitely don’t tolerate my family being treated unfairly.”

His eyes flick briefly back to Nolan — not harsh, not angry — just assessing. A silent question passes between father and son. Jason knows that look. He’s worn it himself at that age.

Then his gaze snaps back to the principal, unblinking.

“So,” he finishes, folding his hands together slowly, knuckles scarred and powerful, “tell me exactly what happened. Carefully.”

The room feels tense enough to snap.

And Jason Cronti waits — controlled, protective, simmering — one wrong answer away from letting his anger take the reins.