At the hospital, Alejandro erected a wall of protection: guards, cameras, checkpoints. But fear still seeped in. And it wasn’t paranoia. At four in the morning, when the shifts changed, men disguised as medical staff arrived. A guard fell. Marcos Hernández, head of security, reacted with brutal precision. The code red sounded.
Alejandro woke up in time. He saw a man enter with a syringe. He stood between him and the bed.
—You’re not going to touch them.
“You’re a businessman,” the intruder mocked, “not a fighter.”
Alejandro acted like a desperate father. He disarmed him, beat him, drew blood, but didn’t give in. Reinforcements arrived in three minutes. They captured the attackers. But Morales brought worse news: another team was heading to his office. It was too late. There was an explosion. Patricia, his fifteen-year-old assistant, and two guards were killed.
Alejandro felt the pain transform into something new: a cold fury.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m going to destroy them.”
Morales insisted: Diego wouldn’t be safe anywhere that was easy to track. They moved him to a safe house in the mountains. There, in the silence of the trees, Diego began to breathe without startling himself… barely. Dr. Mendoza accompanied them. Sofía did too, because no one could convince her to leave.
As the days passed, Alejandro sought not only revenge, but also meaning. Upon learning of the other missing children, he decided to fund a foundation to rescue and care for victims. One afternoon, Sofía looked at him, her pride broken, like someone who never expects anything.
“And what about me?” she asked. “When Diego no longer needs me… do I go back to the streets?”
Alejandro looked at her as if that question broke his heart.
“No,” he said. “If you want… you’re family. I’ll adopt you.”
Sofia didn’t respond with words. She threw herself into his arms, crying silently, as if her body didn’t know how to receive something good.
But the calm was short-lived. A message arrived: “Mendoza is dead. Someone is cleaning house.” Executions began. Witnesses silenced. Morales suspected a mole.
And then, the truth slipped out through the mouth of a rescued girl: Emilia, ten years old.
—There was a lady… elegant… perfume… she smiled… they called her “the angel”… but her eyes were cold —Emilia said—. She frightened me more than Mr. Mendoza.
They showed her photos. Emilia froze in one.
—That’s it… that’s the one.
Morales ran to the safe house as if the devil were chasing him. He went inside and, in a harsh voice, asked everyone in the room.
—Including Dr. Mendoza.
Sara slowly raised her gaze. The warmth in her face went out like a lamp.
“What is this?” asked Alejandro, confused.
“She’s Mr. Mendoza’s sister-in-law,” Morales said. “And there are payments in her name. Millions. She’s involved.”
Diego felt like his world was breaking down again. That woman had cared for him, brought down his fever, spoken to him as if he were human… and at the same time, she had been part of hell.
“Why?” she whispered, her voice so fragile it was almost nonexistent.
Sara smiled humorlessly.
“Because a dead child is worth nothing,” he said. “A rescued child who trusts me… is worth information.”
Alejandro lunged toward her, but Marcos stopped him. Sara spoke of “business,” of “merchandise,” of “supply and demand,” as if the children were boxes. And then, like someone dropping a bomb for pleasure, she added:
“I’m not the monster you should be worried about. I’m middle management. Real power… is closer than you think. Much closer.”
Before they could react, all the lights in the cabin went out. The generators wouldn’t start. In the darkness, Sara murmured calmly:
—They’re here.
Marcos gave orders. Morales took Alejandro and the children to the panic room. There were sounds of banging, gas, and screams. Sofía squeezed Diego. Sara, handcuffed, sat in a corner as if she were in a theater.
“They won’t kill you right away, Diego,” he said. “You’re too valuable.”
Diego, with seven years of survival tattooed on his body, looked at the ventilation duct.
“It connects outside… right?” he said to his father, his voice barely audible. “There’s a ranger station two kilometers away. Federal officers. They can bring in real reinforcements.”
Alejandro wanted to say no, wanted to forbid it, wanted to be the father who eliminates danger with an order. But he saw something in his son’s eyes that he couldn’t extinguish: the need to regain control of his own life.
“Okay,” he said, heartbroken. “But Sofia… don’t let go of him.”
Sofia nodded. They entered the duct. Diego crawled forward, just like that night in the city. Sofia followed behind, guiding him. And Alejandro stayed inside, counting the seconds, ready to buy time with his own skin.
The door to the panic room began to give way. A voice spoke from the opening, calm and polite.
—Mr. Romero… leave peacefully. We prefer not to use force.
Alejandro responded with a calmness born of desperation.
—Tell me who’s in charge here.
There was silence. Then:
—You’ll find out soon enough. In fact… you already know him. You’ve known him for years.
The door fully opened. Six figures in tactical gear. The leader removed his mask.
Alejandro felt the ground disappear.
Ricardo Vázquez. His partner of fifteen years. Diego’s godfather. Close friend. The man who had hugged him at Elena’s funeral. The man who had cried with him.
—Hello, Alejandro— said Ricardo, smiling. —I suppose we have a lot to talk about.
Alejandro couldn’t breathe.
—This… can’t be real…
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