The Don's Lost Love

Chapter 3: Tension at Home.

Rosa's POV

The front door creaked as I stepped inside, the foul, bitter smell of whiskey hitting me before I even let the door close behind me. The apartment was dim, with a single lamp casting its yellow glow over the peeling wallpaper and cluttered floor.

Bottles—half-empty, some shattered—were scattered across the small living room like forgotten promises. Alejandro’s boots were resting on the coffee table, his head tilted back on the couch, and the television buzzed with static.

I knew he wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too jagged, too loud. It was the breathing of a man waiting to pounce.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice shot through the room, sharp and accusing, like a slap.

“I was at work,” I replied, my voice calm. It was always better to be calm around him. Anything else was like throwing gasoline on a fire. “I told you I had the night shift.”

He leaned forward, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes. His face was unshaven and gaunt, a far cry from the man I used to look up to when I was little. That man was gone, replaced by this angry, broken shell.

“Work,” he spat. “Don’t give me that crap, Rosa. You come home with a pocket full of excuses and no damn money. What good is it if you can’t even help your own father?”

I dropped my bag by the door, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “I gave you money last week, Pa. All of it. I barely had enough left to eat.”

“Not my problem!” he shouted, slamming a bottle on the table. “Do you think the people I owe care if my little girl is hungry? Huh? Do you think they’re gonna back off if I tell them, ‘Oh, my daughter’s starving, can we just forget the debt?’” He laughed bitterly. “You’re useless. Just like your mother.”

I froze, the words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. He always knew how to find the tender spots, the ones that never quite healed. “Don’t bring her into this,” I said quietly, my voice shaking.

“Why shouldn't I?” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “She ran out on us, didn’t she? Left me here with you. Like either of you were worth a damn.”

“Stop it,” I said, louder this time, my anger rising despite myself. “Just please stop.”

“Or what?” He sneered, standing up unsteadily. He towered over me, swaying slightly, but his presence was still suffocating. “You gonna stand up to me, Rosa? Big tough girl now, huh?”

I took a step back, my heart racing. “I’m not giving you any more money. Not this time.”

His hand moved fast as he grabbed the strap of my bag and pulled it off my shoulder. I tried to snatch it back, but he was stronger, even drunk.

He dumped the contents onto the floor—loose change, a lipstick, a pack of gum—and kicked at the mess, his face twisted with rage when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

“Where is it?” he barked. “Where’s the rest?”

“That’s all I have!” I shouted, the words bursting out of me before I could stop them. “I already told you, I don’t have anything else!”

“Liar!” He grabbed the edge of the coffee table and flipped it, sending bottles and ashtrays clattering to the floor.

I jumped, my breath hitching, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot, my body trembling with fear and fury.

“You’re pathetic,” he snarled, his voice low now, almost a growl. “You’re nothing, Rosa. Nothing.”

The words hit like punches, one after the other, until I felt empty inside. I bit my lip hard, refusing to cry in front of him.

He didn’t deserve my tears. Not anymore.

When he finally stumbled back to the couch, muttering under his breath, I bent down and started picking up my things. My hands shook as I hastily packed them back into my bag, the heat of anger and humiliation burning in my chest.

I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t keep doing this.

But where would I go?

I turned to leave, desperate for air, for space, but then I saw it—a small, cracked leather box on the floor by the couch.

It must have fallen out of his coat pocket. He didn’t notice, too busy cursing at the television, and for a moment, I hesitated.

He was always so secretive about his things. Even as a child, I knew better than to touch anything that belonged to him. But something about the box pulled at me, a quiet whisper in the back of my mind that I couldn’t ignore. Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed it and slipped it into my pocket.

Once I was in my room, I closed the door quietly and locked it. My hands were still shaking as I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out the box. It smelled old, like dust and tobacco, the leather cracked and worn from years of use.

I opened it slowly, half-expecting something disturbing or incriminating—evidence of just how deep my father’s debts went. But inside, there was only a necklace.

It was simple, a thin gold chain with a single charm shaped like the letter D.

I held it up to the light, watching the way it sparkled, the way the charm swayed gently on the chain. It didn’t look expensive, but it felt heavy in my hand, as though it carried more weight than it should.

The letter stirred something in me, something buried deep, but I couldn’t quite place it.

I turned the charm over, searching for a clue, a memory, but nothing came. Just a faint ache in my chest, a feeling I couldn’t explain.

Why would he have this? It didn’t make sense. My father wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t hold onto things unless they served a purpose. And yet, this necklace… it felt familiar in a way I couldn’t ignore.

I clenched it in my hand, my mind racing. What was this doing here? And why did it make me feel like I was forgetting something important?

I whispered the letter to myself, the sound foreign and strange.

“D…”