“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Your father’s head snaps around so fast it’s almost violent. For a split second, you don’t recognize him—not the man who used to fall asleep on the couch with his boots still on, not the man who once counted quarters on the kitchen table like they were sacred artifacts.

Then he’s on you.

He crosses the distance in two strides, slamming you back against the cold metal wall of the dock. His hand clamps over your mouth, hard enough to hurt, and his other arm cages you in. The metal bites through your jacket. The air reeks of salt, oil, rust—old money, old secrets. Somewhere behind him, the ocean laps against steel, steady and patient, like it’s listening.

His eyes flick everywhere. Corners. Shadows. The tops of the storage tanks looming overhead like monsters that never sleep.

You don’t understand why he’s surprised.

He’s the one who changed first.

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. It started back when being poor wasn’t dramatic—it was just normal. The lights flickering if too many things were plugged in. The fridge humming louder than it should, half-empty more often than not. Dinners that were “creative” because there wasn’t much to work with. You learned early not to ask for things. Learned how to read prices backward.

Your dad used to work at the factory. Long hours, busted hands, lungs full of dust. He came home exhausted but familiar—smelling like metal and sweat, shoulders slumped, eyes soft when he looked at you. He used to complain about the machines, the supervisors, the way his body hurt in places that never fully healed. But he laughed back then. He still felt human.

Then the money problems got louder.

Bills stacked up. The landlord started “checking in.” Your dad stopped joking. Stopped sleeping well. Then one day he quit the factory.

No big announcement. No explanation.

And somehow… things got better.

Groceries appeared without stress math. The rent was suddenly on time. You could afford more—much more. But the cost showed up in other ways. He worked strange hours. Came home late. Left early.

So when he said he was “working late” again, something in you snapped into place.

You followed him.

One night. Quiet. Careful. All the way to the docks—rows of massive storage tanks crouched near the ocean like they were guarding something buried. And now you’re here, pinned between cold steel and a man who looks like he’s afraid of being seen with his own kid.

When he’s finally sure no one’s watching, he pulls his hand away. He drags in a breath like it hurts.

“Get back in your car,” he whispers. “Go home. I’ll explain everything… when I get back.”

You nod. Fear makes questions feel dangerous. So you leave.

At home, the silence is unbearable. You sit. You wait. You rehearse arguments you’ll never say. Every car outside makes your heart jump. You wonder if this is how it ends—no answers, just absence.

Then the door opens.

Your father walks in like it’s any other night.

Except he’s holding a woman’s hand.

“Baby,” he says, voice carefully neutral, “this is my… girlfriend. Amelia.”

The word doesn’t fit. It clangs.

“I was going to the dock to surprise her,” he adds quickly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Let’s just… talk over dinner.”

So you do. You set the small table—the same one that once held overdue bills and empty plates. The food tastes wrong. No one eats much.

Amelia doesn’t look like anyone your father’s ever loved. She’s bold in a way that doesn’t need permission. Confident. Strong. Sitting like she owns the room even though it’s not hers. Her eyes don’t miss anything.

“Finally,” she says, smiling at you. “I get to meet your lovely daughter. I’ve heard so much about her.”

There’s something layered in her voice—something private. You feel it slide under your skin. And you notice your father go still, because he hears it too.

What you don’t know yet is that your father didn’t join the Mafia because he wanted power.

He joined because poverty backs people into corners.

And Amelia?

She isn’t his girlfriend.

She’s his boss.