The Don and His Mafia Princess

CHAPTER 6

We finish dinner, and I retreat to my room my mind is abuzz with the newfound responsibility and the prospect of proving myself to Dad. I begin packing, meticulously selecting outfits that strike a balance between professionalism and personal style. Halfway through, I decide a glass of wine might help ease my nerves and aid in the packing process.

I head downstairs, and as I approach the kitchen door, I freeze. The sound of Mama and Santiago's hushed yet clear voices reaches my ears. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself lingering, the door slightly ajar.

"Phew! I was so worried your sister would question why he suddenly decided to involve her in the family business," Mama expresses her concern.

Santiago's response hits me like a punch to the gut. "I know; I can't imagine how hurt she will be if she finds out he just asked her to head over to California because it was demanded, not because he finally sees her worth," Santiago remarks. His words strike a chord in my heart. Here I was in my room, hoping my father had finally recognized that I could offer more than just a way to spend his money, but could actually assist him in making more.

I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself before confronting Mama and Santiago. I barge into the kitchen, my voice trembling slightly as I ask, "Really?"

Mama's eyes widen, guilt flashing across her face. "Andrea," she exclaims, caught off guard by my sudden appearance.

I turn to Santiago, my gaze demanding. "Answer me."

He hesitates. "Andrea, it..."

I cut him off, my voice rising with each word. "Why is Dad letting me go to California? Were you supposed to go?"

"Andrea..." Santiago starts, but I'm not having it.

"Answer my f*****g question!" I yell, tears welling up in my eyes, blurring my vision.

Santiago exhales heavily, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Yes," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nod, the confirmation hitting me like a physical blow. The tears spill over, streaking down my cheeks as my chest tightens painfully. I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. "Thank you for telling me," I manage, my words strained.

I spin around and walk out of the kitchen, no longer able to hold back the sobs that wrack my body. I hear Santiago's footsteps behind me, and I turn to face him, my face a mess of tears and raw emotion.

"Please, I want to be alone right now," I tell him, my voice cracking. He stops, respecting my wishes, and I'm grateful for the space.

I make my way back to my room, each step heavy with the weight of this revelation. I burst into my room, slamming the door behind me as I throw myself onto the bed. The ache in my heart is overwhelming, a crushing weight that threatens to suffocate me. How could I have been so foolish, so naive to think that my father had finally seen my worth? The realization that he only asked me to handle the California project because it was demanded, not because he believed in me, cuts deeper than any knife ever could.

Tears stream down my face as I curl into myself, the pain of years of seeking his approval washing over me in relentless waves. It's a familiar feeling, this desperate longing for a father's love and respect, a validation that seems forever out of reach. No matter how hard I try, how much I achieve, it's never enough. I'm never enough.

The scar on my hand throbs, a physical reminder of the lengths I've gone to in the past to gain his attention. The memory is forced away. Instead of the concern and love I craved, I was met with a loss of respect, a coldness that cut me to the core. It was as if I had ceased to exist in his eyes, a ghost haunting the halls of our home.

I feel like young again, constantly striving for a glimmer of acknowledgment, a scrap of affection. The weight of his disapproval is suffocating, a burden I've carried for as long as I can remember. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it seems I'll never be worthy in his eyes.

The tears continue to fall, soaking my pillow as I let the pain consume me. I know I shouldn't care so much, that I should be able to brush off his indifference and forge my own path. But he's my father, the man who should love me unconditionally, the one whose approval I've always craved. It's a primal need, a yearning that I can't seem to shake.

As I lie there, my heart shattered and my spirit broken, I can't help but wonder what it will take to finally earn his respect. Will there ever come a day when he looks at me with pride? The thought seems like a distant dream, a fantasy that I can't quite bring myself to believe in.

For now, all I can do is let the tears fall, to allow myself this moment of vulnerability and despair. Tomorrow, I'll pick myself up, put on a brave face, and face the world again. But tonight, in the solitude of my room, I'll mourn the love I've never had, the approval I've always sought, and the scars, both visible and invisible, that I'll carry with me always.