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“It’s not your house,” he repeats, voice trembling. “It was supposed to be mine. Our son paid for us to live… and you turned it into your cage.”
Your mother starts crying silently, wiping her tears with the edge of her sleeve like she’s trying not to cost anyone more trouble.
Tomás’s jaw clenches. He takes a step toward your father.
You move between them instantly.
“Touch him,” you say, voice flat, “and I’ll have you in handcuffs before your boots hit the dirt.”
Tomás laughs, but it comes out wrong. “You think you can do that here?”
You hold up your phone. “I can,” you say. “Because I’m recording you admitting you’ve been intercepting my funds.”
Tomás’s eyes dart toward the back door.
Then he does what cowards do when the corner closes.
He lunges at you.
You react fast, but you’re not built for farm fights anymore. Your suit restricts your movement, your shoes slip on the dusty floor, and Tomás’s fist clips your shoulder.
Your mother screams.
The little girl flinches hard, curling into herself like she’s seen violence before.
Your father tries to rise, but his body won’t cooperate.
Tomás grabs for your phone, snarling, “Give me that!”
You twist away and shove him back. He stumbles, and in that stumble his jacket opens.
And you see it.
A thick leather wallet, bulging. Not cash.
Cards.
Your cards.