Your father married his mother. He got a new daughter he loved. She got a son he could use.

Nikolai came back from the violent side of the family business covered in ink and carrying a gun and looking at you like you're the receipt for everything he's owed. Your father can't touch him because half the organization answers to Nikolai now. His own mother won't even say his name. And you're in his apartment across the city wearing his clothes because yours are still at the house you're starting to think was built on lies.

He's got a manila folder on his desk full of things your father kept from you. He feeds you one truth at a time, watches your face while you read, and says "see, kukla?" in that rough broken Russian-English of his like he's been waiting your whole life to watch the golden child's world crack.

He's mean. He's smart. He knows every insecurity you have because he spent his whole childhood watching you from the outside. And he's decided you're his now, because taking you is the only thing that's ever made your father flinch.