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The scene was a complete disaster.
And not one of those easy-to-clean disasters with a rag and some patience. It was a picture worthy of a miniature family tragedy.
It almost seemed funny at first.
Almost.
In the middle of the living room, the white carpet — or what once was white — was now stained with an unmistakable mix of blood, muddy paw prints, and a brown puddle that smelled like sugar.
Rosinante, her hair loose and an expression caught somewhere between fury and exhaustion, was kneeling on the floor, scrubbing mercilessly with a towel soaked in cleaning product.
The picture was a mess.
The dark, dry bloodstain — Doflamingo’s masterpiece, courtesy of “a small graze,” according to him — the brown from the iced coffee Law had dropped when she came in, and the damp, gray tracks of mud Bepo had left stamped in all innocence.
A domestic tragedy in three acts.
A few meters away, the three culprits — a two-meter-tall mobster with a bandaged chest, an unbothered-looking teenager, and a large, light-furred dog — stood in a line, almost as if they were on trial.
Rosinante scrubbed angrily, with force, her hands trembling in frustration.
“I told you a thousand times not to ruin it!” she exclaimed, not looking back, her voice somewhere between anger and exhaustion. “A thousand times!”
Doflamingo had a fresh bandage on his chest and a glass of whiskey in his hand, slouched on the sofa, as if staying still could make him less guilty.
Law, still in her school uniform and with her backpack half open, watched silently, knowing that any word would only make things worse.
And Bepo… well, Bepo was lying on the floor, head down, ears drooped, letting out a small whimper of remorse while his human mother scrubbed away his crime.
“I can’t believe it…” Rosinante murmured, her voice trembling. “I can’t believe the three of you managed this.”
“Cora…” Doflamingo tried, standing slightly.
“No. You shut your mouth, just shut up,” she cut him off without looking at him, scrubbing harder. “You, who have all the damn money in the world to bleed wherever you want — did you have to do it right here? On my carpet!?”
“It was an accident,” he grunted defensively. “I didn’t choose to get shot, woman.”
“But you did choose to walk straight here instead of to the damn bathroom or the hospital!” she snapped back, her voice rising a tone.
Law closed the empty coffee thermos with a click, wincing.
“Mom, I can clean my part, it was just a little coffee—”
“No, it wasn’t just a little coffee, Donquixote Law,” she said with the kind of drama only a mother in crisis can manage. “It was the drop that finally sank my carpet, you know that?”
Silence returned for a second.
Only the wet sound of the rag against fabric, Bepo’s guilty panting, and the faint murmur of Doflamingo lighting another cigarette filled the room.
Until Rosinante stopped.
She dropped the rag.
She stared at the ruined carpet for a long moment, and without warning, she began to cry.
“Mom!” Law exclaimed, startled. “Wait, no… don’t cry, we can—”
“No, you can’t,” Rosinante sobbed, covering her face with her hands. “It’s ruined… completely…”
Doflamingo stood quickly, leaving the cigarette in the ashtray.
“Come on, Rosinante, don’t exaggerate. It’s an old carpet.”
Mistake.
Big mistake.
“It’s not an old carpet!” she shouted, straightening up, breathing hard, her eyes gleaming with tears.
And without another word, she smacked him with an open hand right in the chest — right where the wound from his last job was still sore.
“Ah, for—! Rosinante!” he protested through gritted teeth. “That’s where I was hit!”
“Good for you, then, idiot!” she shot back, crying harder. “It’s not just a carpet, Doffy… it’s where our daughter took her first steps, where she fell for the first time and cried, where she learned to crawl, where we read those stupid polar bear stories she loved over and over again, where she took so many naps with Bepo on top of her… where we had so many pajama nights waiting for you to come home…”
Her voice broke, the words tumbling out between sobs.
“Where she said her first word… ‘Hungry’… even if you say it wasn’t ‘hungry’ and just a ‘hunm,’ I know what she meant. And now… now it’s all destroyed…”
The room fell silent.
Law swallowed hard, unsure whether to laugh or apologize again.
Doflamingo looked at her, then at the carpet, and finally at Rosinante, who was still crying into her hands, her body shaking with small hiccups.
He sighed.
Lowered his head for a moment, defeated.
And then, gently, he stepped closer to her.
“Come here, woman,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Don’t cry over a carpet. We’ll buy another one, the same, or prettier.”
“I don’t want another one!” she retorted, not pushing him away. “I want that one.”
Doflamingo smiled faintly, that crooked gesture somewhere between patience and tenderness.
“Then we’ll have it restored, alright?” he whispered, lowering his voice. “Like it’s a treasure.”
Rosinante looked at him, her eyes still wet.
“Really?”
“Really,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her forehead. “Even if it’s more blood than carpet — if it’ll make you feel better, we’ll restore it.”
Law watched the scene from the sofa, her face flushed with embarrassment.
Bepo, sensing the change in the air, crawled clumsily closer and rested his muzzle on Rosinante’s legs, letting out a small whine of apology.
Rosinante, through her tears, let out a choked laugh and stroked him.
“Oh, my little pup… you’re the only one who’s blameless.”
Law raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms.
“What? He was the first one who made a mess!”
Rosinante looked at her with a mixture of resigned affection.
“Yes, but he can’t defend himself,” she said with a sigh.
Doflamingo let out a rough laugh.
“In the end, the dog wins. Lucky Bepo,” he joked, still holding Rosinante.
“The dog always wins,” she replied, wiping her tears with her sleeve. “Especially in this house.”