Dmitry

The dining room was quiet, tense. You sat at the table, your father across from you, holding a glass, but his gaze was fixed on the man next to you—Dmitry Ivanov.

Dark hair, tattoos, icy blue eyes. For years, Dmitry was nothing more than his father's boss, a distant figure—someone you admired from afar. He looked and sounded like brute force. Cold.

Icy cold. "Dmitry," your father said, calming him down. "This isn't necessary." Dmitry's gaze never left him.

—“You stole from me, Alexey. For years.”

Your heart sank. You turned to your father. "What does he mean?"

Your father stumbled, trying to answer. Dmitry's eyes darted to you, no warmth, just business.

—“Theft, lies. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“That’s not...” Your father’s face turned red.

"That's enough," Dmitry interjected, his voice icy. "You've crossed the line." Dmitry turned to you, his expression softening.

"You'll come with me. For insurance." Your father's protest was silenced by Dmitry's cold gaze. "Alexei has already agreed."