The Sad Mafioso

I originally wrote a story like this here, but the site lost it. This is me trying to rewrite it, I think I got the gist.

There used to be a man that sat at a desk, high above everyone else he knew. Standing, he was shorter, but he seldom stood anymore. That was probably why. But he sat, and when he was at his desk he was higher than anyone, ever. He'd sit there, so tall, thinking he never wanted to leave.
He was very prone to yelling. Clenched-up, knotted little fists of anger filled his going-on-ample belly. He yelled and he yelled. He ruined people's lives, yelling. He was very good at it.
There was one man, he owed the guy some money. The man was escorted into the office, and you could see the primal terror in his eyes. He went in, he went in and they closed the door behind him. They left him alone with the man. The poor, poor man who owed the money had things to live for. He had a wife, kids. Working on getting a job. Things were looking up for him until today, when he got called in on his debt. He had forgotten about the debt.
They say, after the door closed, the room went dark. You could hear the voices coming from the room. It seemed like everything would actually be alright. I'm sure the little man thought he would be okay.
But then, this red light started rising from nowhere. The wavelengths moved up in tempo, aurora filled the room, and with the light came sound. From outside the room it seemed inhuman, no one could understand what he was saying. In the dark hallway, the light projected out of the little office window of the little office door. The lights spun and the screaming filled everyone's ears, and all of a sudden, everyone was scared, everyone was running, where to they didn't no but they knew nothing was alright for them.
Outside of the building, the mobsters employees realized what a dumb move they had just made. They returned slowly to the building, walked with dread up the stairs, wondering what the sad man would do to them.
When they got there, the man was sitting with his back to them. They looked around for the other man, but they couldn't find him anywhere. None of them ever saw him again. No one said anything to the tall man in the desk, they just finished until they were allowed to leave.
The tall man had this daughter, a real pretty girl. She loved him and listened to him, and he loved her. He yelled at her, too.
He just never seemed to get through to her. She was almost twenty, she liked to go hang out at the bars in town, sometimes she teased the boys her age. He didn't approve of that kind of behavior, not at all.
So he just stayed in his chair, and yelled and f*****g yelled. He was screaming away everything, all of the things in his heart, when he found someone who wronged him he used all of it on them. It was the only way he kept sane. He was bigger than everyone, he could do that.
This one time, his daughter came into his office with a boy. She said she loved him. S**t like that made the man sick, he had a wife once. Once.
He screamed his lungs out at them, the boy was so petrified he couldn't have remembered his own name if you asked him. She yelled back at him, she said he was an a*s, she said he was selfish. That was the first time she ever said anything back. He had his boys escort the kid out of the building, with the promise that if he ever touched the mafioso's daughter again, he'd regret it. The kid had an imagination, I'm sure. Kids do.
The daughter had her mother's eyes. His wife had fucked him over. She'd run off with his brother, she said the same thing. She said he loved him. She took the car, took their only money, took their booze, and ran off. He cried for weeks over her, he spent all that time on skid row. He still felt the lice sometimes. That's how he learned what bullshit love is. He spent the night thinking of her.
Later that night, he started feeling sorry. He started feeling real sorry, so he took the notion to go to his daughter and apologize. The bedrooms were a floor up, so, tired, he slowly made his way up to the escalator. He was maybe getting old.
He turned the corner toward his daughter's room at the end of the hall. He heard something through the door. It was ajar, a little lamplight was flowing into the hall. He walked up.
He started calling her name but his voice caught in his throat. Through the open door, he could see her there, arms around her knees. She was crying.
The sad mafioso closed his eyes, nodded, a single tear started its way down his cheek. He turned and started walking towards his own bedroom. She hadn't heard him.
In his room, he sat down on the bed. He cleared his throat. He was still crying. He thought, "boy am I getting old." In the darkness, the window behind him showed a starry night sky. He sat there on his bed, took a deep breath, grabbed the pistol he kept on his nightstand for protection, put it up to his head, pulled the trigger, died.
He woke up in a desert. There was a small sack next to him. It was dark there in that desert. He had a feeling it stayed dark there. The wind whipped sand at his unprotected face and hands.
He looked in the sack. It was full of money.
He noticed a puddle near his head. In the puddle he could see his daughter in his bedroom, holding him, crying. Holding what used to be him. He touched the puddle and it rippled and he couldn't see her for a second.
The edges of the puddle started receding. It was drying up. He knelt on his hands and knees over it, looking desperately in, looking for something he could do. It was closing in, it was closing, closing, closing...
Closed.