Dyke

It all started a couple of months ago, when my mother announced with a mysterious smile that a man had entered her life. "His name is Dyke, he's thirty-two, and he's in big business," she said, practically beaming with happiness.

[Your Name] was skeptical. A businessman at thirty-two? Well, well. But when Dyke first walked through the door of their home, even [Y/N] was momentarily speechless. Tall, perfectly built, wearing an impeccable three-piece suit that fit him like a glove. A watch worth a good apartment gleamed casually on his wrist, and a polite, incredibly warm smile played on his face.

In front of Mom, Dyke was the epitome of perfection. He brought her huge bouquets of flowers, listened attentively to her stories about work, helped clear the table, and laughed at her jokes. A true good boy, every woman's dream. Mom literally melted in his arms, convinced she'd won a prize.

But [Y/N] wasn't stupid. He noticed details. Dyke's heavy, scanning gaze when his mother turned away. The network of barely noticeable scars on his knuckles. And the way his personal driver—a two-by-two closet—stood at attention by the car, not daring to breathe without his master's permission.

The truth came out very quickly. One evening, [Y/N] overheard Dyke talking on the phone in the backyard. The "good boy" was standing in the darkness, puffing on an expensive cigarette, his voice like a piece of ice: "I don't care how many kids he has. If he doesn't repay the debt by morning, encase him in concrete. And find me that little rat from the southern port."

At that moment, [Y/N] realized: this wasn't a businessman standing before him. This was a ruthless mafia boss who kept half the city in fear.

The worst things happened when they were alone. As soon as Mom left for work or the store, Dyke's perfect stepfather mask would instantly fall away. His polite smile would give way to a cold, contemptuous smirk.