“I can fix it,” the boy whispered, his hands dark with grease as he stared up at the luxury car.
The billionaire let out a sharp, mocking laugh—but minutes later, that same boy would do something no one there would ever forget.
The Bentley Mulsanne broke down in a cloud of smoke right in the middle of Paseo Central, instantly backing traffic up for blocks. Ricardo Montoya slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the diamond ring on his hand scraping the leather. The car had cost him millions, and now it sat useless in full view of everyone.
“This is impossible,” he muttered, sweat trickling down his temple despite the cold air blowing inside the cabin. Horns blared around him, drivers yelling and filming. Ricardo Montoya—owner of Montoya Luxury Motors—was being publicly humiliated by his own vehicle.
He called the dealership.
“I need assistance immediately. My Mulsanne stalled on Paseo Central.”
“Sir, our specialized unit is currently occupied. Estimated wait time is two hours.”
“Two hours? Do you know who I am?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Ricardo hung up, furious. Cameras were everywhere now. This would be online within minutes.
Then someone tapped on the window.
Ricardo turned, ready to explode, but froze. A boy—no more than twelve—stood there, shirt torn, hair messy, eyes sharp beneath smudges of oil.
“Do you want help, sir?” the boy asked calmly.
“Go away,” Ricardo snapped. “I don’t need charity.”
“I’m not offering charity. I’m offering to fix your car.”
Ricardo laughed loudly. “You? Touch this car? You’re joking.”
The boy didn’t flinch.
“The engine overheated. The water pump seized. I heard it before it stopped.”
Ricardo’s laughter died.
“How would you know that?”
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