Loving The Mafia King

The banging and clattering broke through the thin walls like thunder, jarring Sera from her sleep. She blinked at the ceiling, disoriented, before realizing that the noise wasn't stopping. Cursing and the sound of cupboards slamming shut cut through the quiet. She rolled over and glanced at the small clock on her nightstand, squinting at the blurry red numbers-2:04 a.m.

With a heavy sigh, she rubbed her eyes, pushed herself out of bed, and tiptoed toward the kitchen. She knew this routine all too well, but tonight felt worse somehow, maybe because of how exhausted she was, maybe because she'd actually dared to hope things might improve after the recent scare with the mafia. But as she drew closer to the kitchen, her stomach knotted. He was there, opening and slamming cupboard doors, a whiskey bottle clutched loosely in one hand. She could see his glassy, unfocused eyes even from across the room.

"Dad?" she called softly, but he didn't look up, his muttering only getting louder as he fumbled around, knocking over containers and shoving aside dishes.

Finally, he opened the highest cupboard, his eyes lighting up with a twisted sense of triumph. Sera's heart plummeted as she saw him reach into the back, his hand emerging with her shoebox-the faded cardboard box that held every dollar she'd managed to save. She clamped a hand over her mouth, swallowing the panic rising in her chest, and stepped forward quickly.

"Dad, wait!" she said, her voice trembling as she tried to approach him calmly. "That's... That's my money. I need that."

He froze, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he looked at her, the haze of alcohol making his gaze heavy and unfocused. "Your money?" he slurred, voice laced with irritation. "Where'd you get money, huh? Always whining about how poor we are..."

"Please, Dad, I worked for that money," she said, stepping closer, her hands outstretched in a silent plea. "It's for bills, for food-"

He cut her off with a sneer, swaying slightly as he held the shoebox just out of her reach. "I work too, you know! I work hard. But you're always complaining, acting like I don't do enough for you."

She tried again, her voice shaking with barely restrained desperation. "I'm not saying that, Dad. I just... we need that money, okay? Please, just give it back. I'm begging you."

But he only let out a bitter laugh, his gaze shifting to the contents of the box. "Look at this... a whole fifty bucks," he muttered, counting the small, crumpled bills with a sneer. "This won't even cover the beer I've had to put up with tonight." His words stung, a twisted mockery of all the late nights she'd spent scraping together pennies, just trying to survive.