Chapter 7
Ramiro was not dead.
That was the truth Alejandro had buried so deep even his own men feared digging it up.
The warehouse fire had been real.
The body had been identified.
The funeral had been small.
But Alejandro now believed the body was someone else.
A substitute.
A lie burned beyond recognition.
The black bird had not been a symbol of grief.
It was the Salcedo family mark.
A raven.
Ramiro wore it on his ring.
Lucía wore it on her necklace.
Mateo had seen both near his mother’s car.
And for two years, Lucía had tortured him into silence.
Alejandro locked down every business line he owned.
Every warehouse.
Every route.
Every account tied to the Salcedos.
Men came and went from the mansion all day.
Some wore suits.
Some wore guns.
All lowered their voices near Mateo.
I stayed in the north wing with him.
He followed me everywhere now.
If I left to get water, he stood at the door until I returned.
If Lucía’s name was spoken, his hands flew to his ears.
If Alejandro entered too quickly, Mateo hid behind me.
Alejandro learned.
He knocked before entering.
Every time.
Even when the door was open.
That one small courtesy did more than a thousand pesos of therapy.
On the third day, Mateo spoke.
One word.
I was sitting on the floor with him, building a crooked tower of wooden blocks Alejandro had found in storage.
The red block fell.
I reached for it.
Mateo touched my wrist.
“Lala.”
I froze.
“What?”
His eyes filled.
“Lala.”
I did not understand.
Then Alejandro, standing in the doorway, made a sound like he had been shot.
“That is what he called Isabela,” he whispered. “When he was a baby. Lala.”
Mateo looked at his father.
Then pointed to the drawing of the car.
“Lala.”
Alejandro came closer slowly.
“Did Lala see Lucía?”
Mateo’s lip trembled.
He nodded.
“Did Lala know Ramiro?”
Mateo nodded again.
Then he said another word.
“Fight.”
My skin went cold.
Alejandro crouched.
“Your mother fought with them?”
Mateo grabbed two blocks and smashed them together.
“Fight.”
“What did they fight about?”
Mateo began crying.
Not rage.
Fear.
I put the blocks down.
“No more questions.”
Alejandro looked desperate.
“We need to know.”
“He needs to breathe.”
For a second, I thought he would argue.
Then he nodded.
“I am sorry.”
Mateo stared at him.
Alejandro repeated it.
“I am sorry, hijo.”
Mateo did not go to him.
But he did not move away.
That afternoon, Doña Socorro came to me with a secret.
She held a small silver key.
“I should have given this to him years ago,” she whispered.
“What is it?”
“Isabela’s private room.”
“I thought Lucía cleared all her things.”
“Not all.”
She led me to a locked sitting room at the end of the north wing.
Dust covered the handle.
No one had entered in years.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of perfume and old paper.
The room was nothing like the mansion.
Yellow curtains.
Painted plates.
Blue cushions.
Color everywhere.
Isabela’s room.
My throat tightened.
Mateo stood in the doorway, frozen.
Then he walked in slowly.
His little hand touched a cushion.
A scarf.
A photograph.
He was meeting his mother again through objects Lucía had hidden from him.
Alejandro stood behind us.
His face was wet.
I pretended not to see.
On the desk, we found a locked drawer.
Doña Socorro’s key opened it.
Inside was a diary.
Several letters.
And a small recorder.
Alejandro picked up the recorder with shaking hands.
He pressed play.
Isabela’s voice filled the room.
Soft.
Urgent.
“If anything happens to me, Alejandro, do not trust Ramiro. And do not trust Lucía. I found transfers through the foundation. Money moving through children’s clinics. Weapons hidden inside medical shipments. Ramiro says you know. I know you do not. Lucía begged me to stay quiet. She said family survives by choosing family. But Mateo deserves a father who is not destroyed by lies.”
The recording clicked.
Alejandro sank into a chair.
I stood very still.
Children’s clinics.
Medical shipments.
My brother’s hospital flashed in my mind.
The debt.
The urgent surgery.
The hospital Lucía had threatened.
I looked at Doña Socorro.
She looked as frightened as I felt.
The recorder continued.
“If they come for me, it will not be random. It will be because I refused to sign the foundation accounts.”
Alejandro whispered, “Foundation accounts?”
Doña Socorro crossed herself.
“The Isabela Foundation,” she said.
The charity Alejandro had created after her death.
For sick children.
For surgeries.
For hospitals.
My knees weakened.
Luis’s surgery was scheduled through that network.
May you like
The danger was no longer only in the mansion.
It had followed me home.
