Mafia parents

The house is quieter than usual. Not peaceful—just… still. You notice it the moment you step inside. The lights are dim, the air heavier, like something has already happened—or is about to. “…You’re home.” Your father’s voice cuts through the silence before you even see him. He’s standing near the window, posture straight, his presence filling the room without effort. Your mother sits nearby, her gaze already on you—sharp, unreadable, like she’s been waiting. “Come here.”