Chapter 7: CARLOS'S RETURN
994 Words
The delivery van idled at the curb outside Sofia’s Brooklyn apartment, its engine sputtering as Carlos Morales stepped onto the sidewalk. He adjusted his leather jacket, its faded patches a relic of his days as a struggling musician, and smoothed his salt-and-pepper stubble. The guitar case slung over his shoulder wasn’t for show—Carlos always traveled with his old Yamaha, a prop to remind everyone of the man he used to be. The man Sofia still believed he could be.
He pressed the buzzer, humming under his breath. When Sofia’s voice crackled through the intercom—“¿Quién es?” (Who is it?)—he grinned.
“¡Hola, princesa! Delivery for Sofia Morales.”
A pause. “Papá…?”, Sofia said surprised at his visit.
The door clicked open.
Sofia stood frozen in the doorway as Carlos bounded up the stairs, his arms laden with wrapped boxes and a bouquet of sunflowers—her favorite. He dropped the gifts on the kitchen counter, ignoring her stunned silence.
“Mira lo que te traje, (Look what I brought you)” he said, tearing into the largest box. Inside was a vintage record player, its turquoise finish chipped but polished. “Remember this? We used to dance to Juan Gabriel in the living room when your mamá was at work.”
Sofia’s throat tightened. She did remember. She’d been six, twirling in her socks while Carlos spun her, his laughter drowning out the scratchy vinyl. But she also remembered the silence that followed—the weeks he’d disappear, leaving her waiting by the window.
“And this—” He unveiled a leather-bound sketchbook, its pages thick and unmarked. “For the next Frida Kahlo, eh?”
“It’s… too much,” Sofia whispered.
Carlos waved her off. “Nada es demasiado para mi niña. (Nothing is too much for my girl)” He pulled her into a hug, his cologne—patchouli and cigarette smoke—smothering her. “I’ve missed you, Sofi. Let’s start over. Una familia otra vez. (A family again.)”
Later, Sofia sat cross-legged on her bed, tracing the sketchbook’s embossed edges. Gabi flopped beside her, scowling at the record player.
“He’s love-bombing you,” Gabi said. “Classic narcissist move.”
“He’s trying,” Sofia insisted, though her chest ached. “He apologized.”
“Did he?” Gabi raised a brow. “Or did he just say, 'Lo siento (I'm sorry)' and flash his sad-guy dimples?”
Sofia hesitated. Carlos had apologized—sort of. “I was young, cariño. I made mistakes.” But he hadn’t said what mistakes, hadn’t mentioned the debts, the lies, the way he’d vanished without a word.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Pedro: “Saw your new art on Insta. Stunning. Coffee tomorrow?”
She typed, deleted, then typed again: “Can’t. Family stuff.”
Carlos also reached Izzy. Izzy found Carlos on her doorstep at midnight, his guitar case propped against the railing.
“¿Qué haces aquí? (What are you doing here?)” she hissed.
Carlos smirked. “Relax, mi amor. I’m here for Sofia.”
“Over my dead body.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “She’s my daughter too. You can’t keep her from me forever.”
Izzy’s nails dug into her palms, “You lost that right when you emptied her college fund.”
Carlos laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. “You’re still bitter? I’m changed, Izzy. I’m here to make things right.”
“Bullshit.” She shoved him back. “You’re here because you’re broke. Again.”
His mask slipped, eyes flashing. “And what’s Pedro here for? His money? Or yours?”
The door swung open. Sofia stood in the hall, her face pale, “Stop it. Both of you.”
Carlos softened instantly. “Cariño, I just want—”
“I need time,” she whispered. “Please.”
The next morning, Pedro found Izzy at Morales Matches, her head in her hands. He slid a café con leche across her desk.
“Sofia told me,” he said quietly.
Izzy didn’t look up. “Stay out of it.”
“I can’t.” He leaned against the desk. “Carlos is using her. You know this.”
“And you know nothing about family,” she snapped.
Pedro flinched. “I know when someone’s manipulating the people I—” He stopped himself.
Izzy met his gaze. “The people you what?”
He stood abruptly. “I’ll handle Carlos.”
“No.” She grabbed his wrist. “This is my mess.”
His thumb brushed her pulse point, “Not anymore.”
Carlos found Pedro waiting outside Sofia’s apartment, his arms crossed.
“Ah, the billionaire,” Carlos sneered. “Here to buy my daughter too?”
Pedro stepped closer, his voice icy. “Leave. Or I’ll bury you in lawsuits you can’t afford.”
Carlos laughed. “You think I’m scared of you?”
“No.” Pedro pulled out his phone, displaying a screenshot of Carlos’s offshore accounts—empty. “But you’re scared of this. Of being exposed.”
Carlos paled. “How did you—?”
“Leave Sofia alone,” Pedro said. “Or everyone learns who you really are.”
That night, Sofia confronted Carlos at a dimly lit taquería.
“Did you ever love us?” she asked.
Carlos reached for her hand. “Siempre, cariña (Always darling)”
She yanked away. “Then why did you leave?”
For the first time, his eyes flickered with guilt. “I… couldn’t stay. But I’m here now.”
Sofia stood, tossing the sketchbook onto the table. “Keep it. I don’t want your lies.”
As she walked out, Pedro’s black SUV idled at the curb. He nodded to her through the window, silent but steady.
She didn’t look back.
- Writer
