PART 1: THE COLDEST WINTER OF MY LIFE
The night in Madrid is unforgiving. When the wind blows down from the mountains in January, it’s not just cold air; it’s invisible blades that seek out any gap in your clothing to bite into your skin. The thermometer in my car read five degrees below zero as I drove toward the Villaverde industrial park. It was a ghost town at that hour, a labyrinth of concrete warehouses and long shadows where decent people didn’t dare venture after sunset.
I’m not one of the decent folk. I’m Vicente Montoya. In certain circles in the capital, my name is whispered. They say I control the flow of goods, that I have half the police force on my payroll, and that my heart is as cold as a tombstone. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe they were, until that night.
I parked the black SUV behind an abandoned warehouse my organization used to store “surplus.” It was a routine inspection. Nothing out of the ordinary. I got out of the car, adjusting my Italian cashmere coat, feeling the crunch of frost under my leather-soled shoes. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the M-40 motorway.
I walked toward the back, where mountains of trash were piled up, untouched by anyone. I was about to turn around and go back to the car when something stopped me. A color. A flash of color that didn’t fit in with the grays and browns of the garbage.
It was a blanket. Or what was left of it. A threadbare, dirty piece of cloth that barely covered two bundles pressed against the brick wall.
I approached cautiously. In my world, curiosity often leads you into a trap. My right hand instinctively went to the pistol in my shoulder holster. “Who’s there?” I asked, my voice ringing authoritatively in the empty alley.
No one answered. Only the wind whistling through the containers.
I took another step, and the “bumps” shifted. It wasn’t a sudden movement, but a tremor. A rhythmic, constant spasm. I lowered my gaze, and in that instant, time stood still. The entire universe contracted until it was reduced to what lay before my feet.
They weren’t trash. They were two little girls.
Two tiny creatures, huddled together on damp cardboard. They couldn’t have been more than seven years old. Their lips had that violet hue that precedes death from hypothermia. Their skin was white, translucent, like porcelain about to shatter. Their matted, dirty hair fell over their faces.
Vicente Montoya has seen things. I’ve seen men begging for their lives. I’ve seen violence in its rawest form. But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for this. The pistol slipped from my fingers. It fell onto the dirty snow with a dull thud that sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the night.
“My God…” I whispered. The vapor of my breath escaped like a white cloud.
Before I could duck, one of them raised her head. She was the one who seemed slightly older, or perhaps just stronger. Her eyes locked onto mine. And what I saw there shattered me inside. There was no hope. Not even a plea for help. There was terror. And something worse: resignation. As if that seven-year-old girl had already accepted that this was the world: cold, pain, and abandonment.
“Please…” Her voice was a thread, a whisper broken by the chattering of her teeth. “Don’t send us back. We’ll be good.”
The other girl, whose face was hidden against her sister’s chest, looked up. Her eyes were glassy and vacant. “We promise… we promise we’ll be good,” she added, with a dry sob, no tears, because the cold had probably dried them all up.
I froze. I, the man who made the city tremble, felt like I couldn’t breathe. What kind of horror had these creatures endured to believe they’d been thrown away because they “hadn’t been good”? What monster had made them believe they deserved this?
Then I saw something gleaming around the first girl’s neck. A silver medallion, tarnished by time, hanging from a thin chain. A small, inexpensive object, but one they wore as if it were the crown jewel.
I didn’t think. My paternal instinct, something I thought I had reserved only for my son Lucas, awoke with the force of a tsunami. I took off my coat. That coat cost more than many people earned in a month, and I let it fall over them with the delicacy of someone covering a work of art.
My hands, the same hands that had pulled triggers and sealed illegal deals, trembled as I wrapped those small, stiff bodies. “No one’s taking you back,” I said, my voice strange and husky. “No one’s ever going to hurt you again.”
Sofia, the eldest, tensed when my hand brushed her shoulder. A conditioned reflex. The reflex of someone accustomed to adults’ hands bringing pain, not warmth. But as the warmth of my coat began to penetrate, her shoulders lowered an inch. She looked at me suspiciously, analyzing my every move, assessing whether I was a new threat or a temporary savior.
Olivia was different. She closed her eyes tightly, burying her face in the wool of my coat, as if she wanted to disappear from the world.
-Boss!
The voice of Darío, my right-hand man, broke the silence. I heard his quick footsteps on the crunching snow. He was running towards me, his weapon drawn, alerted by my lateness. “Boss! What’s wrong? Is there a problem?” he shouted, reaching me, his breath ragged.
Darío has been with me for ten years. He’s seen it all. But when he saw the scene, he stopped dead in his tracks. He lowered his weapon slowly, his mouth agape. “Boss… what…?” he stammered, looking at the girls and then at me, kneeling in the filth in my three-piece suit.
I had never seen Vicente Montoya kneeling before anyone. Much less holding two unknown girls.
I stood up, lifting Olivia first. She weighed so little… She was terrifyingly light, as if her bones were those of a bird. Lighter even than Lucas had been when he was three. Sofia jumped up, ignoring her own weakness, and grabbed my trouser leg, clutching the coat covering her sister as well. She wasn’t going to let go.
“Should I call the police, Chief?” asked Darío, already taking out his cell phone.
“No,” I cut short. My voice came out icy, definitive. “Bring the car. Here. Now.”
Dario hesitated for a second. “But, Chief… we don’t know who they are. This could be a mess. What if someone is looking for them… what if it’s a trap…” He was right. In my position, picking up two abandoned girls was a logistical and security nightmare. It could be a misinterpreted kidnapping, a trap set by a rival gang, a massive legal problem.
I looked at Olivia in my arms. I felt her small heart beating against my chest, fast, erratic, like a trapped animal. I felt her trembling lessen a little as she felt my body heat. “I said bring the fucking car, Dario,” I growled, glaring at him with an intensity that made him take a step back. “I’m taking them home.”
Darío nodded, put his phone away, and ran towards the SUV.
I stayed there, in the heart of the Madrid winter night, with Olivia in one arm and Sofia’s icy hand clasped in mine. Sofia lifted her head and looked at me. Her eyes shone in the darkness. “Are you really not going to take us with him?” she asked.
“With whom?” I wanted to ask, but I held back. It wasn’t the right time. “No. You’re coming with me. To a warm house. With food. You’re safe.”
The car pulled up beside us. The warmth from inside was a welcome relief as I opened the door. I put the girls in the back seat. Dario watched us in the rearview mirror, worry etched on his brow, as he started the engine and we drove out of that hell of ice and garbage.
As the car devoured kilometers along the M-40, I couldn’t stop looking at them in the rearview mirror. The heater was on full blast, melting the frost from their clothes. But the cold they carried inside would take much longer to dissipate.
I noticed how they were sitting. Sofia wasn’t lying down. She was tense, her body turned, positioning herself between Olivia and the door, between Olivia and me. One hand encircled her sister’s shoulders; the other gripped the hem of my coat with white knuckles. At only seven years old, she already had the posture of a protector. The posture of someone who has had to learn to take the blows so that another doesn’t suffer.
I was familiar with that position. I saw it in the mirror when I was a child, and I had to stand in front of my mother when my father came home drunk.
“What are your names?” I asked, softening my voice as much as possible.
Sofia jumped, but answered. “Sofia. And this is my sister Olivia. We’re twins.”
“Twins?” I nodded. “How old are you?”
—Seven. Our birthday is in April.
She said it without emotion, like someone reciting a technical fact. Without the joy a child usually has when talking about their birthday. Perhaps it had been a long time since anyone had celebrated anything with them. I wanted to ask about their parents. I wanted to ask who had left them there. But I saw panic creeping into Sofia’s eyes. She was expecting the interrogation. She was hoping that, upon learning the truth, I would change my mind and throw them out of the car.
“Okay,” I said, deciding not to push. “Rest. We’re almost there.”
Sofia looked at me in surprise. Perhaps she wasn’t used to an adult respecting her silence. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for not sending us back.”
I didn’t answer. I just nodded and stared at the road. But inside, a volcanic fury was beginning to stir. Someone had hurt these girls. Someone had terrorized them to the point that they believed being abandoned was a deserved punishment. And I, Vicente Montoya, swore silently, with the lights of Madrid reflecting on the windshield, that I would find that bastard and make him pay in blood for every tear these girls had shed.
We arrived at my estate in La Moraleja. The house lights shone warm and invitingly, a stark contrast to the darkness we had come from. The iron gate opened and we went inside. Sofia pressed her nose against the window. She had never seen such a big house. Olivia, who had been dozing, woke up and looked around in amazement.
“Let’s go,” I said, opening the back door.
Doña Rosa, my housekeeper, came out onto the porch. She’s been with my family for twenty years. She’s like a second mother to me and a grandmother to Lucas. She came out looking worried about the time, but when she saw the two girls coming downstairs, she froze. “Mr. Vicente…” She put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes scanned the dirty clothes, the blue lips, the extreme thinness. “Good heavens… Who are these children?”
“They need help, Rosa,” I said curtly, avoiding lengthy explanations. “Prepare a warm bath. Clean clothes. And food. Broth, something mild.”
Doña Rosa asked no questions. Her maternal instinct kicked in instantly. “Oh, my poor little ones!” she exclaimed, approaching them. “Come, come with me, little angels.”
At that moment, a whirlwind descended the main staircase. “Dad! You’re back!”
Lucas, my five-year-old son, appeared in dinosaur pajamas, running barefoot across the wooden floor. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the two strangers in the lobby. His black eyes, identical to mine, widened. Not with fear, but with immense curiosity.
“Dad… did you bring any friends?” Lucas asked, with the innocence only a loved and protected child can have. He always asked me for a brother, but his mother died in childbirth and I never remarried.
I knelt down to his level. “Lucas, these are Sofia and Olivia. They’re staying with us tonight. They need help. Will you help me take care of them?”
Lucas nodded enthusiastically and approached them with a toothless grin. “Hi. I’m Lucas. I have a PlayStation and lots of Legos. Do you like Legos?”
Sofia looked at him, bewildered. She was used to running away, to hiding. That warm welcome unsettled her more than the shouting. But Olivia timidly peeked her head out from behind her sister.
“Doña Rosa, take them upstairs,” I ordered gently.
Half an hour later, the horror became tangible.
I was in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of whiskey to calm my nerves, when Doña Rosa came downstairs. Her eyes were red from crying, and she was holding a handful of dirty clothes. She closed the kitchen door and leaned against it, sobbing.
—Mr. Vicente… —his voice trembled—. They have… their bodies are a map.
I slammed the glass down on the counter. “What do you mean?”
“Bruises, sir. All over. On her back, on her legs…” Doña Rosa wiped her tears with her apron. “There are old, yellow bruises, and other purple, recent ones. And the eldest, Sofía… she has marks on her arms as if she’d been whipped with a cable. And a scar on her stomach.”
I felt bile rising in my throat. I clenched my fists until my knuckles turned white. The image of a man, or anyone, raising a hand against those girls made me gag with pure violence. I wanted to kill. I wanted to go out right now, find the culprit, and skin him alive.
“They didn’t say a word,” Rosa continued, sniffing. “While I was bathing them… not a single complaint. Not even a ‘it hurts.’ They let me wash them in silence, like broken dolls. That’s the worst part, sir. A child who cries is a child who still has hope of being comforted. A child who is silent… it’s because they already know that no one cares about their pain.”
—Serve them dinner— I said, my voice sounding like gravel. —Let them eat all they want.
When I went upstairs to the dining room, the girls were already seated at the table, wrapped in large, warm bathrobes. Doña Rosa had set out two bowls of steaming soup and fresh bread for them. I stood in the doorway, watching.
Sofia picked up the spoon. But she didn’t eat. She filled it with soup and brought it to Olivia’s mouth. “Eat, Liv,” she whispered. “Eat quickly before they take her away.”
Olivia opened her mouth and swallowed eagerly, almost choking. Sofia gave her another spoonful, and another, watching the door, watching me. Only when Olivia had eaten half of it did Sofia begin to eat herself. And they ate with a voracity that broke my heart. They devoured it without hardly chewing, protecting the bowl with their arms, like animals waiting to have their prey stolen.
Lucas watched them from his chair, his own bowl untouched. “Dad…” he asked me softly. “Why are you eating like that? Doesn’t your tummy hurt?”
I sat down next to him and ran my hand through his hair. “They’re very hungry, son. Sometimes, when you’re hungry for a long time, you forget how to eat slowly.”
Sofia froze when she heard me. She dropped the spoon, which clattered against the porcelain. She lowered her head, shrugging, waiting for the reprimand for her “bad manners.” “Sorry,” she whispered. “Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Eat. There’s more. There’s all the food you could ever want. No one’s going to take it away from you.”
Olivia looked up, sporting a soup mustache. “Really? Can we have some more?”
“You can repeat it as many times as you want,” I assured him.
That night, Lucas insisted they sleep in his room. “I have the big bed, Dad. I’ll sleep with you,” he said. Watching my son give up his space, his blankets, his stuffed animals, to two strangers filled me with a bittersweet pride. Sofia and Olivia fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted, but even in their sleep, Sofia kept one hand clutching her sister’s T-shirt.
I went out onto the balcony and dialed Dario’s number. “Boss?” “I want to know everything, Dario. Everything. Sofia and Olivia. Twins. Seven years old. Birthdays in April. Search school records, hospitals, missing persons reports. I want to know who their parents are, and above all, I want to know who did this to them.” “I’ll get on it right now. You’ll have a name tomorrow.”
The next morning, I went down to the kitchen early. I found Sofia standing motionless in a corner. Doña Rosa was cooking eggs, but the girl didn’t come near. “Good morning,” I said. Sofia jumped and turned around. Her eyes widened in panic. When she saw me approaching the coffee pot, she took a sharp step back and raised her arms to cover her face.
I was stunned. The gesture was unmistakable. It was the gesture of someone expecting a morning slap. “I’m just going to get some coffee, Sofia,” I said softly, holding up my open hands to show I had nothing. “I’m not going to hit you. Nobody hits children here.”
She lowered her arms slowly, embarrassed. “I’m sorry… it’s just… I made a noise.” “You didn’t make any noise. And even if you had, it’s not a big deal.”
A little while later, Olivia and Lucas came downstairs, the latter carrying toy dinosaurs. Breakfast passed with a tense calm, until my phone vibrated on the table. It was Darío. I got up and went out into the hallway.
“Tell me.” “I’ve got it, Chief. And… you’re not going to like it. Or maybe you will. It’s complicated.” “Speak.” “The girls’ names are Sofía and Olivia Vega. But their mother… their mother is Valeria Hernández. 28 years old.” “Valeria?” The name hit me like a punch to the gut. “Yes. She’s currently hospitalized in Toledo, in an induced coma for the last three weeks after a brutal beating.” “And the father?” I asked, feeling the ground shift beneath my feet. “The biological father is listed as ‘unknown.’ But the mother married a man named Marcos Vega two years ago. A guy with a record for drug trafficking and domestic violence. He’s the one who abandoned them. He’s the one who’s been ‘taking care’ of them while their mother’s in a coma.”
Valeria Hernández. Val. My mind traveled back seven years. To the girl with brown eyes and an infectious laugh who worked at that café in Malasaña. The girl I fell madly in love with. The girl who vanished from my life overnight without a trace, just as I was starting to climb the ranks in the organization. My mother told me Val had left me for someone else, that she’d accepted money to break up with me. I, young and proud, believed her. I swallowed the poison and hated her so I could forget her.
“Boss… there’s something else,” Darío said hesitantly. “I’ve sent you a photo of the mother’s hospital record.”
The message came through. I opened the photo. It was her. She was gaunt, full of tubes, pale as death, but it was Val. My Val.
I hung up the phone and went back to the living room like a sleepwalker. Lucas was showing Olivia a T-Rex. Sofia was watching them, smiling slightly for the first time. I went over to them. My legs were shaking. “Olivia…” I said. She looked at me. “That medallion… can I see it?”
Olivia placed her hand over her chest, protecting it. “It’s Mom’s. She told us that if we missed her, we should look inside.”
—Please. I just want to see the photo.
With trembling fingers, Olivia took off the chain and gave it to me. I opened the silver clasp. Inside, a tiny photo, cut out with scissors. It was Val. Younger. Smiling. And… she was pregnant. Very pregnant.
I looked up and stared at Sofia. I really looked at her. Not at the scared, dirty girl. But at her features. Her eyes. Those eyes weren’t brown like Val’s. They were blue-gray. With brown flecks around the pupils. They were my eyes. They were my mother’s eyes. Lucas’s eyes.
I looked at Olivia. The same chin shape. That stubborn chin I see every morning when I shave.
Seven years. The girls were seven. Birthday in April. I did the math in my head. Val disappeared in August. Eight months before April. She was pregnant when she left. She left pregnant with my child.
The air rushed from my lungs. I had to lean on the sofa to keep from collapsing. Those girls… those creatures I found in the trash, frozen and terrified… they were my blood. They were my daughters.
“Sir, are you alright?” Sofia asked, worried about my paleness.
I looked at her and felt an overwhelming urge to cry, to scream, to smash everything. Seven years had been stolen from me. I’d been robbed of seeing them born, seeing them take their first steps. And worst of all: they’d been left at the mercy of a monster while I lived in my luxury mansion, unaware they even existed.
“Yes…” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m fine. Sofia… your mother… is her name Valeria?”
—Yes. Valeria Hernández. Do you know her?
The tears I had held back for years began to stream down my face uncontrollably. I knelt before them and returned the medallion. “Yes. I know her. And I promise you one thing, on my life: we’re going to find her. And the man who did this to you… Marcos Vega… he’s going to wish he’d never been born.”
That same day I ordered the DNA test. Three agonizing days of waiting. Three days in which I never left their side, observing every gesture, every shy smile, recognizing myself in them. When the doctor called, he confirmed what my heart already knew. Probability of parentage: 99.99%. They were my daughters.
The rage transformed into a cold, lethal calm. I got in the car. I didn’t tell anyone, only Darío. “Find Marcos Vega. Don’t touch him. Just find him. I’ll take care of it.” “And then, Chief?” “Then we’ll go to the hospital. I’m going to get my family back.”
I drove to Toledo with my soul ablaze. I was going to see the woman I loved, the one I believed had betrayed me. I was going to see the monster who had touched my daughters. The story had only just begun. And Madrid was going to burn.
PART 2: THE AGONIC WAIT AND THE BLOOD THAT CALLS
The three days that followed the DNA sampling were, without a doubt, the longest of my life. Longer than the nights in jail when I was a reckless kid, longer than the negotiations with the Eastern European cartels that dragged on for weeks. Time in my mansion in La Moraleja seemed to have transformed into a viscous, slow-moving substance, dripping second by second, torturing me.
I tried to maintain a sense of normalcy. I tried to be the same old Vicente Montoya: cold, calculating, efficient. I met with my lieutenants in my office, reviewed the accounts of the shell companies, signed authorizations for international shipments. But my mind wasn’t there. My eyes scanned the lines of the reports, but my brain kept projecting, over and over again, the image of Sofia’s blue-gray eyes.
“Boss, are you listening to me?” Darío asked in one of those meetings, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I blinked, returning to the reality of leather and mahogany. “Yes, Darío. The shipment from the port of Valencia. Tell them to wait another week. I don’t want any risks with the Civil Guard around.” “We decided that half an hour ago, Vicente. We were just talking about the Russians.”
I sighed, running a hand over my face. Darío was looking at me with that mixture of respect and brotherly concern that only comes from dodging bullets together. “I’m not focused, Darío. Cancel the rest of the afternoon.”
I left the office and went down to the living room. From the stair railing, I silently observed the scene. Lucas was on the rug, surrounded by an army of Playmobil figures. A few feet away, on the sofa, were the women.
Sofia and Olivia.
They were wearing new clothes that Doña Rosa had urgently ordered: soft cotton tracksuits, Velcro sneakers, pastel-colored T-shirts. But even in designer clothes, they looked out of place, like two wildflowers transplanted into a glass greenhouse. Olivia was asleep, her head resting in her sister’s lap. Sofía wasn’t asleep. Sofía was on guard. Her eyes scanned the room: the front door, the windows, the hallway that led to the kitchen. She was a little creature on constant alert, calculating escape routes, assessing invisible threats.
I descended the steps, making noise on purpose so as not to startle her. Even so, Sofia’s body tensed like a violin string. “Hello,” I said softly, keeping a respectful distance. “Hello, sir,” she replied. Her voice was barely a whisper. “You can call me Vicente. Or Uncle Vicente, if you prefer. ‘Sir’ sounds too old.”
Sofia didn’t smile. She looked at me with that adult seriousness that no seven-year-old should have. “When’s the doctor coming?” she asked directly. “Soon. The results take a few days.” “And if… and if we’re not sick, are you going to kick us out?”
The question pierced my chest like a spear. I sat down in the armchair opposite her, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “Listen to me carefully, Sofia. Look at me.” She held my gaze, brave despite her fear. “No one is going to kick you out. Never. Whatever happens with those tests, this house is your home for as long as you want. Do you understand? You’re not going back to the cold. You’re not going back to that Marcos guy.”
When I mentioned their stepfather’s name, I saw a spasm run through her body. Olivia stirred in her sleep and moaned something unintelligible. Sofia immediately stroked her hair, whispering comforting words in a secret twin language. “He said our father didn’t love us,” Sofia said suddenly, still looking at her sister. “He said we were trash and that our father threw us away because we were in the way.”
I felt the bile rise in my throat. The anger, hot and liquid. “That man was lying, Sofia. Sometimes, parents don’t know where their children are. Sometimes, parents have their children stolen from them. But I swear to you, if your father knew where you were… he would have moved heaven and earth to find you.”
The afternoon of the third day arrived. My phone vibrated on my desk. Blocked number. San Rafael Clinic. My hand trembled as I answered. Me, who never trembles. “Hello?” “Mr. Montoya,” the doctor’s voice was clinical, clinical. “I have the results of the paternity tests you requested urgently.” “I’m listening,” my voice came out hoarse, as if I’d swallowed glass. “The comparison of genetic markers between you and the minors Sofía and Olivia Vega shows a 99.99% match.”
The world stopped. The hum of the air conditioner vanished. The pounding of my own heart thumped in my ears like war drums. “Say it again,” I demanded, needing to hear it once more to believe it. “You are the biological father of both girls, Mr. Montoya. Without a doubt. I will send you the detailed report by courier within the hour. Is there anything else you require?”
-No, thanks.
I hung up. The phone slipped from my hand and fell onto the table. I slumped back in my leather chair, staring at the coffered ceiling of my office. I closed my eyes and, for the first time in years, allowed the dam to break.
They were mine. Those girls shivering with cold in an industrial park. Those girls covered in bruises. Those girls begging for forgiveness for eating. They were my blood. They were my daughters. I wept. I wept silently, a bitter, painful cry that burned my throat. I wept for the seven lost years. For the first steps I didn’t see. For the first words I didn’t hear. For the nightmares they had that I couldn’t soothe.
But after the tears came the fury. A cold, Siberian fury. I stood up, wiped my tears with the back of my hand, and looked at myself in the mirror of the display case. My eyes, the same eyes Sofia had, shone with a promise of violence. Someone had stolen seven years of my life. Someone had damaged what was mine. And Vicente Montoya always collects his debts.
I stormed out of the office. Darío was in the hallway. “Get the car ready,” I said. “Where are we going, Chief?” “To Toledo. To the hospital. And Darío… nobody better get in my way today.”
PART 3: SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WHITE HELL
The drive to Toledo was a blurry blur of asphalt and taillights. I was driving. I didn’t let Darío touch the steering wheel because I needed to feel in control, I needed the speed to drown out the deafening noise of my thoughts. One hundred and eighty kilometers per hour on the toll highway. Darío, in the passenger seat, gripped the door handle, pale, but wise enough not to say a word.
I knew I was going to see her. Valeria. Or “Scarlet,” as she called herself on social media, according to Darío’s report. Seven years. The last time I saw her, we were in bed in my old apartment in Malasaña, tangled in the sheets, promising each other we’d go to Italy that summer. She had that easy laugh, that light that made even a dark guy like me believe in redemption. And then, the emptiness. The fake letter. My mother’s lies. “She’s gone, Vicente. She took the money and left. She never loved you.”
I parked the car at the entrance to the emergency room of the Virgen de la Salud Hospital, ignoring the no-parking signs. A security guard approached, but Darío discreetly stepped in front of him, showing him a license plate that wasn’t entirely legal but worked perfectly.
I walked through the corridors. I hated hospitals. The smell of cheap disinfectant, of disease, of stale machine coffee. It was the smell of death disguised as hope. Floor 3. ICU. Box 12.
I stopped in front of the glass door. My legs, which had sustained me through shootouts, now felt like lead. I took a deep breath, trying to compose the mask of coldness I wore as armor, and pushed open the door.
The rhythmic sound of the monitors was the first thing that hit me. Beep… beep… beep… The metronome of a life suspended. And there she was.
If I hadn’t known it was Valeria, I might not have recognized her. She was in terrible shape. Her body, once full of curves and vitality, was now a skeleton covered by a white sheet. Her face was swollen, bruised on one side. A tube came out of her mouth, connecting her to the ventilator. Her arms, resting on the sheets, were thin as dry branches, full of IV lines and catheters.
But it was her. I would recognize the start of her reddish-brown hair anywhere. I would recognize the shape of her hands.
I dragged a plastic chair over and sat down beside him. The sound of the legs against the linoleum floor was like a scream. I reached out and took his hand. It was cold. Lifeless. “Val…” I whispered. My voice broke. “It’s me. It’s Vicente.”
There was no response. Only the mechanical whir of the ventilator inflating his lungs. I stroked his knuckles with my thumb, with a gentleness I didn’t know I possessed. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I was a fool. A damned blind man. I should have looked for you. I should have turned over every stone in Spain until I found you. I shouldn’t have believed them.”
I looked at the marks on his arms. Old scars, cigarette burns maybe, cuts… The map of the hell he’d lived through the last two years. “I’ve seen the girls, Val. I’ve seen our daughters. They’re… they’re beautiful. Sofia has your chin and my temper. Olivia has your sweetness. They’re safe. I swear to you on everything sacred. They’re at my house, in warm beds, with full bellies. Lucas… Lucas is showing them his dinosaurs.”
Tears began to fall again, soaking the hospital sheet. “No one will ever touch you again. I’m going to get you out of here. I’m going to take you to the best doctors in the world. You’re going to wake up, Val. You have to wake up. You have to see them. You have to let me ask for your forgiveness while looking you in the eyes.”
The door opened and a doctor entered with a folder under his arm. He looked at me with surprise, then with suspicion. “Excuse me, visits to the ICU are restricted to immediate family members. Who are you?”
I stood up, drying my face and regaining my full height. The change was instantaneous: from a broken man to a dangerous kingpin. “I’m the father of your daughters,” I said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “And I’m the one who’s going to cover all your medical expenses from now on.”
The doctor, a middle-aged man with an utterly weary face, nodded slowly. “I understand. Look… Miss Hernandez’s condition is critical. She arrived here three weeks ago in septic shock caused by an untreated internal infection, along with severe malnutrition and multiple injuries.” “Multiple injuries?” I repeated the word, savoring its bitterness. “Bruises,” the doctor translated bluntly. “She had poorly healed broken ribs. A fractured ulna. Hematomas in various stages of healing. Someone has been using her as a punching bag for a long time.”
I closed my eyes for a second, picturing Marcos Vega’s face, a face I’d only ever seen in blurry police photos. “Will he be okay?” “We’ve got the infection under control. But the brain damage from lack of oxygen… it’s hard to say. He’s in a coma. He might wake up tomorrow, or he might never wake up. His body is exhausted. It just… gave out.”
“She won’t give up,” I growled. “He doesn’t know her.” I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “I want an immediate transfer. Ruber International Clinic in Madrid. I want the head of neurology waiting for her at the door. I want a mobile ICU here in thirty minutes. Money is no object. Buy the whole hospital if you have to, but get her out of this mess.”
I hung up and looked at the doctor. “Prepare the voluntary discharge and transfer papers. Now.”
As the doctor hurried out, I leaned over Valeria one last time. I kissed her forehead, right where her hairline began. “Rest a little longer, darling. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll clean up the mess. And when you wake up, the world will be a different place.”
I left the room, my heart heavy again. Darío was waiting for me in the hallway. “Boss?” “It’s done. She’s being transferred to Madrid.” “And now?” I took out a cigarette, even though smoking was forbidden, and held it unlit, just to have something between my fingers. “Now we’re going hunting. Where’s Marcos?”
Darío looked at his phone. “My guys have located him. He’s at a roadside hostel on the outskirts of Illescas, about forty minutes from here. It seems he’s trying to sell the car to escape.”
A dark, joyless smile crossed my face. “Illescas. Perfect. Let’s pay him a courtesy visit.”
PART 4: THE TRIAL OF THE WOLF
The “El Caminante” hostel was one of those places where people go to hide or to make mistakes they’ll regret for the rest of their lives. A two-story building with peeling paint, a neon sign missing letters, and a parking lot full of trucks and wrecked cars.
It was eleven o’clock at night. The cold of the Castilian plateau was biting. Darío stopped the SUV in the back, blocking the only possible exit. Two of my men, who had arrived earlier in another car, stepped out of the shadows. “Is he inside?” I asked. “Room 104. Ground floor. He went in an hour ago with two bottles of cheap whiskey and hasn’t come out since.”
I took off my cashmere coat and left it on the car seat. I rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt, undoing my gold cufflinks. I didn’t want to get my hands on someone else’s blood if I could avoid it, but I was prepared for anything. “Stay here. If he tries to climb out the window, break his legs. But don’t kill him. He’s mine.”
I walked toward room 104. My footsteps landed firmly on the cracked cement. I felt an unnatural calm, the calm of the executioner before he drops the axe. I didn’t knock. I lifted my leg and delivered a sharp kick right next to the lock. The rotten wood gave way with a crash, and the door swung open, slamming against the inside wall.
Marcos Vega was half-lying on the bed, wearing a grease-stained tank top and unbuttoned jeans. He jumped, knocking the whiskey bottle to the floor. He tried to reach for a knife on the nightstand, but his reflexes were dulled by alcohol and drugs.
I was faster. Much faster. I crossed the room in two strides, grabbed her by her greasy hair, and slammed her face into the mattress before she could even scream. “Who the hell are you?! Let me go! I have money, I’ll give you whatever you want!” she mumbled, her voice muffled by the dirty sheets.
I turned him around and punched him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over like a shrimp, coughing and gasping. I sat down in the chair across from him, looking at him with utter disgust. He was a pathetic man. Thin but wiry, with that sly look of a sewer rat.
“I don’t want your money, Marcos,” I said, in a calm, almost conversational voice. “I want you to tell me a story.” “What?” Marcos looked at me with one eye that was already starting to swell. “What are you talking about? You’re crazy!”
I stood up and stepped on her right hand, the one that was trying to crawl toward the knife lying on the floor. I applied pressure slowly with my Italian shoe until I heard the crack of her metacarpal bones. “AAAAHHH!” Her scream was sharp, heart-wrenching. “Shhh…” I hissed. “Don’t wake the neighbors. I asked you about a story. The story of two little girls you left in the trash in Madrid when it was five degrees below zero.”
The color drained from Marcos’s face. The pain in his hand faded into the background, replaced by the sheer terror that gripped him as he understood. “I… I didn’t… I didn’t know… They… they were a burden… Their mother…” “Their mother’s in a coma because you beat her to a pulp,” I interrupted, increasing the pressure on his hand. “And the girls… do you know who those girls are, Marcos?”
He shook his head, whimpering, snot and tears mingling in his stubble. “They’re my daughters.”
The revelation hit him like a slab of concrete. His eyes widened in shock. He knew who I was. In the underworld, everyone knew Vicente Montoya, even if only by reputation. And he had just realized that he had tortured the devil’s family. “Please… Mr. Montoya… I swear… I took care of them… I fed them… but the money ran out and I…”
I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him off the ground, slamming him against the peeling wall. “Did you take care of them?” I whispered inches from his face, smelling his stale breath. “They have old scars, Marcos. They have belt marks. They’re afraid to eat because they think you’re going to take it away. They’re afraid to breathe hard.”
I pulled out my gun. Not to shoot, but so he could feel the cold steel against his temple. He began to sob, trembling uncontrollably. “Kill me… kill me now and end this.”
It was tempting. God knows it was tempting. My finger caressed the trigger. Just a millimeter of pressure and his brains would decorate the textured wall. It would be justice. It would be cleansing. The world would be a better place without Marcos Vega. I visualized the moment. The bang. The blood. The relief.
But then, another image surfaced. The image of Sofia. “Are you going to hit us?” If I killed this man now, how would I be any different from him? I would be the monster who kills. I would be the father with blood on his hands who comes home and tries to hug his daughters with those same hands. My daughters deserved a father, not a murderer. They deserved for me to be better. For them. For Valeria.
Slowly, very slowly, I lowered the gun. Marcos looked at me, confused, waiting for the shot that never came. “No,” I said, letting go of him. He fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “I’m not going to kill you. That would be too easy. Too quick. You’re not going to suffer for just a second.”
I crouched down to his level. “I’m going to do something worse. You’re going to jail. But not just any prison. I have friends in Soto del Real, in Valdemoro, in Herrera de la Mancha. I’m going to make sure they all know who you are. I’m going to make sure they know you like hitting women and abandoning little girls in the snow.”
Marcos paled even more. In the prison code, child abusers are at the bottom of the food chain. His life was going to be a daily hell. “Every day you breathe in there will be a gift from me,” I whispered. “And every time you close your eyes, you’ll pray I killed you today.”
I got up and left the room without looking back. “Dario,” I said as I stepped out into the cold night air. “Call the police. Tell them we’ve found the man wanted for domestic violence and child abandonment. And tell them he fell down the stairs a couple of times before they arrived.”
As we drove away from the hostel, I saw the blue lights of the Civil Guard approaching in the rearview mirror. Marcos Vega was finished. And me… I was going home. I had two little girls to read a story to and a wife to wait for to wake up.
The journey back was different. The anger had dissipated, giving way to a profound weariness, but also to a strange peace. He had stared into the abyss and hadn’t jumped.
“Are you okay, Chief?” Darío asked, breaking the hour-long silence. I looked out the window, watching the lights of Madrid approach. “Yes, Darío. For the first time in a long time… I think so.”
I arrived home in the early hours. Everything was silent. I carried my shoes upstairs so as not to make a sound. I went into Lucas’s room. There they were. All three of them. Lucas was asleep sideways on the bed, one foot propped up on the pillow. Olivia was curled up next to him. And Sofia… Sofia was awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the door. When she saw me come in, she tensed up, but when she recognized me in the moonlight streaming through the window, her shoulders relaxed.
“Did you find him?” she whispered. I sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, gazing at her adoringly. “Yes.” “Is he coming back?” “No. Never again. The police have taken him somewhere he won’t come out. It’s over, Sofia. The bad man is gone.”
Sofia looked at me for a long minute, processing the information. Then she did something I didn’t expect. She got out of bed, walked barefoot to me, and sat on my lap. She rested her small head on my shoulder and sighed. A long, deep sigh, as if she were releasing all the air she’d been holding for two years. “Thank you… Daddy,” she whispered.
And at that moment, in the darkness of a child’s room, the great Vicente Montoya, the Madrid boss, burst into tears of happiness while embracing his daughter.
PART 5: THE INVISIBLE THREAD OF LIFE
Two weeks have passed since the police took Marcos away. Two weeks that have felt like two years, but also like two seconds. Time in the Montoya mansion has taken on a new dimension, marked not by luxury watches or business meetings, but by the rhythm of the breathing of two little girls who, little by little, are learning to sleep without fear.
Valeria was transferred to the Ruber International Clinic in Madrid, just as I ordered. The best suite, overlooking the pine trees of El Pardo, though she can’t see them yet. I’ve turned that hospital room into my temporary office. While my lieutenants, Darío and Elías, handle the organization’s day-to-day business, I spend my time sitting in the leather armchair next to Val’s bed, reading reports in a low voice, telling her the news, or simply holding her limp hand.
Doctors say her vital signs are improving. That the brain swelling has subsided. But Val remains in that dark, silent place where her mind fled to protect itself from the pain.
“Sofia laughed today,” I tell her, stroking her wrist, where her skin is beginning to regain a less pale tone. “It was over something silly. Lucas put his underwear on his head playing superheroes. Sofia let out a short laugh, like a bark, and then covered her mouth, startled. But she laughed, Val. She laughed.”
The silence of the room is broken only by the rhythmic buzzing of the heart monitor. Beep… beep… beep…
“Olivia keeps having nightmares,” I continue, my voice dropping to a whisper. “She wakes up screaming, ‘Daddy, no, Daddy, no.’ It breaks my heart, Val. I run to her bed, hug her, and tell her that Daddy is here, that her real Daddy is here, and that the other one will never come back. It takes her an hour to calm down. But each night it takes a little less time.”
I look at her face. She’s still beautiful, despite her thinness, despite the shadows under her eyes. “They need you, darling. I do what I can. I try to be the father they deserve. I’ve even learned to braid hair, can you believe it? Vicente Montoya braiding French hair. Doña Rosa laughs at me, says I have the hands of a butcher trying to make bobbin lace. But they like it.”
Suddenly, I feel something. A fluttering. Like a butterfly brushing against my palm. I freeze, holding my breath. “Val?”
Another movement. Her index finger curls weakly around mine. I jump up, knocking the chair back. I lean over her, my heart pounding against my ribs like a hammer. “Valeria, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
Five eternal seconds pass. And then, I feel the pressure. Weak, almost imperceptible, but real. Her eyelids begin to tremble. That titanic struggle to lift the leaden curtain of the coma. “Come on, darling. Open your eyes. Come back to me. Come back to us.”
And then it happens. Her eyes open. Those honey-colored eyes that have haunted my dreams for seven years. At first, they’re unfocused, lost in the haze of sedation and trauma. She blinks several times, trying to take in the afternoon light streaming through the window. Her gaze wanders across the white ceiling, over the tubes, until it finally lands on me.
She remains still. Recognition takes a moment to arrive. She frowns slightly, as if she’s seeing a ghost. “Vi…cent…” Her voice is a guttural sound, dry, rough like sandpaper. Tears spring to my eyes instantly. I don’t try to stop them. “Yes, my love. It’s me. It’s Vicente. You’re safe.”
Panic floods her eyes. She tries to sit up, but she has no strength, and the machine starts beeping faster. “The girls!” she croaks, her anguish chilling to the bone. “Marcos… the girls… cold… snow!” “Shhh! Calm down!” I gently but firmly hold her shoulders, pulling her back down. “Look at me. Look me in the eyes, Val!”
She looks at me, trembling, with the pure terror of a mother who thinks she’s lost her children. “The girls are fine,” I tell her, enunciating each word clearly. “I found them. They’re at my house. They’re safe. They’re eating, playing, sleeping in warm beds. Marcos is in jail and he’s never going to get out. No one will ever hurt you again.”
Valeria stops fighting. She looks at me, searching for the lie in my face, but finds only the absolute truth. “Did you… find them?” she whispers, and tears begin to roll down her temples, disappearing into her hair. “I found them. They’re beautiful, Val. They’re identical to you. And they have my eyes.”
She closes her eyes and lets out a sob that seems to come from the very depths of her soul. A sound of relief so intense it hurts to hear. “I knew it…” she whispers. “I knew that if anyone could save them… it was you.”
I sit on the edge of the bed and kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her hands. “Rest. I’ll call the doctors. And then… then I’ll bring your daughters to you.”
PART 6: THE BURNT LETTERS AND FORGIVENESS
The recovery was slow, but a mother’s will is the most powerful force in nature. In three days, Val could sit up. In five, they took her off the ventilator. But the true healing, the healing of the soul, happened one rainy Tuesday afternoon, when the room was silent and the shadows were lengthening.
We were alone. She was watching the rain hit the windowpane. I was peeling an apple for her with a knife, removing the skin in a single strip, as I used to do to impress her years ago.
“Did you know?” she asked suddenly, without looking at me. I stopped hanging up. “Knew what?” “That they were yours.” “I took a DNA test as soon as I saw her eyes. But deep down… I think I knew the moment Sofia looked at me defiantly in that alley. She has my temperament.”
Valeria turned to me. Her eyes were filled with guilt. “Vicente… forgive me. Forgive me for not telling you. For stealing seven years from you.” “No,” I said, putting the knife and the apple down on the nightstand. “Don’t apologize. It’s my fault. I should have looked for you.”
“I tried,” her voice broke. “I swear I tried. When I found out I was pregnant… I came looking for you. I went to your mother’s house in the Salamanca district.” I tensed at the mention of my mother. Doña Mercedes. A woman of steel, classist to the core, who always thought Valeria, the neighborhood waitress, was a gold digger.
“Did you go see my mother?” I asked, feeling a knot in my stomach. “Yes. I was desperate. I was 21, alone, and scared. She… she wouldn’t even let me through the gate. She came out with that cold elegance of hers and told me…” Valeria swallowed, reliving the pain. “She told me you’d gone to Italy. That you’d forgotten about me. That you were going to marry a business partner’s daughter.” “Lies!” I slammed my fist on the arm of the chair. “I was here! I locked myself in my apartment for a month waiting for you!”
Valeria nodded, tears falling freely. “She told me that if I tried to contact you, she’d ruin your life. That you were an important businessman and that a ‘slip-up’ like me and a bastard on the way would only sink you. She offered me money for an abortion.” “Bitch…” I whispered. My own mother. The woman I kept in her glass palace. “I threw the money in her face,” Val continued, a flash of pride in her eyes. “But she threatened me. She said she had connections. That she could make my father lose his pension, make sure my mother couldn’t find a job… I was scared, Vicente. You were powerful. She was powerful. And I was nobody.”
I got up and walked to the window, turning my back to her so she wouldn’t see the murderous rage consuming me. My mother had orchestrated everything. She had manipulated our lives like pawns, condemning her own granddaughters to misery for nothing but her stupid class pride.
“I wrote to you,” Val said from behind me. “During the first year. I wrote you a letter every week. I sent them to your old address, to the office, even to your mother’s house, begging them to give them to you.” “I never received anything,” I said, my voice choked with emotion. “Not a single line. She intercepted them all.”
I turned around. Valeria was crying silently. “I thought you read them and threw them away. I thought you didn’t really love us. That’s why… that’s why when I met Marcos… he seemed nice at first. He promised to take care of us. I was so tired of fighting alone, Vicente… so tired…” “And you walked right into the lion’s den,” I finished for her, moving back to the bed.
I sat beside her and cupped her face in my hands. “Listen to me, Valeria. My mother is going to pay for this. Not with violence, because she’s my blood, but she’s going to know what loneliness is. It’s over. You are my family. The girls are my family. She’s lost the right to know us.” I pressed my forehead to hers. “We can’t get those seven years back. It hurts… God, it hurts me to my core not to have been there when you were born, not to have been there to protect you from that coward’s first blow. But I swear on my life that I’m going to spend every second of the years we have left making up for it.”
Valeria closed her eyes and nodded. “I believe you. I’ve always believed you.”
The next day, I took the girls. It was a logistical operation worthy of a head of state. Sofia and Olivia wore their best dresses, which they had chosen themselves. Olivia wore her hair down; Sofia, in a high ponytail. Lucas insisted on coming, dressed in a shirt and a bow tie that kept askew. “Is Mom going to recognize us?” Olivia asked in the elevator, gripping my hand so tightly it cut off my circulation. “Of course she will, silly,” Sofia said, though I saw her nervously bite her lip. “It’s Mom.”
When I opened the bedroom door, time stood still again. Valeria was sitting on the bed, her hair styled and her makeup lightly applied to conceal the remaining bruises. When she saw the girls, she let out a moan that was half laughter, half tears. “My girls! My loves!”
There was no hesitation this time. Olivia ran and jumped onto the bed, burying her face in her mother’s neck. “Mommy! Mommy, you’re back!” Sofia approached more slowly, her eyes filled with tears, but when Valeria reached out to her, the dam broke and she ran to join the embrace. The three of them melted into a mass of arms, tears, and kisses. I stood in the doorway, with Lucas beside me, feeling like an intruder in that sacred moment, but immensely happy.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Valeria repeated, kissing their little heads. “I’m sorry I couldn’t defend you. I love you so much…” “Dad saved us,” Olivia said, lifting her snotty face. “Dad came, Mom. Just like in the stories.”
Valeria looked up at me over the girls’ heads. Her eyes shone with infinite gratitude. “Yes. Dad came.”
Then Lucas tugged at my pants. “Dad… can I say hi?” I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. “Sure, son. Come here.”
We approached the bed. Valeria dried her tears and looked at Lucas with curiosity and tenderness. She knew who he was. I had told her. The son I had with another woman while she suffered far away. But in Val’s eyes there was no resentment, only pent-up love. “Hello, Lucas,” she said softly. “Hello, Mrs. Valeria,” Lucas said, very formally. “I’m Lucas. I brought you this drawing.” He handed her a crumpled piece of paper. It was a drawing of five stick figures. One very large one (me), one medium-sized one with red hair (her), and three small ones. “That’s us,” Lucas explained. “Dad, you, Sofia, Olivia, and me. And that one over there is the T-Rex that protects us.”
Valeria picked up the drawing as if it were a Rembrandt. “It’s beautiful, Lucas. Thank you. The girls told me you’ve been a wonderful big brother. That you let them use your room.” Lucas shrugged, turning red. “Well, they were cold.” There was a silence. Lucas looked at his shoes and then looked up, bravely. “Are you… are you going to stay with us?” Valeria looked at me, seeking confirmation. I nodded slightly. “Yes, Lucas. If your dad lets me… I’d really like to stay.” “Great!” Lucas shouted. “Because I don’t have a mom. Mine went to heaven when I was born. And Sofia and Olivia have a mom. So… if you stay… can we share you?”
My heart sank. My son’s innocence was disarming. Valeria reached out and touched Lucas’s cheek. “It would be an honor if you shared me. You can call me Mom if you like, sweetheart. Or Val. Whatever you prefer.” “Mom’s fine,” Lucas said, grinning from ear to ear. “Mom Val.”
And so, in a hospital room, smelling of disinfectant and fresh flowers, my broken family was reunited with golden glue.
PART 7: THE FLOUR WAR
The return home was the real beginning. The hospital was a limbo, a place of transition. But the mansion… the mansion was real life. Valeria was still weak. She needed help climbing the stairs, and she tired easily. But her presence completely changed the energy of the house. Where before there had been a monastic silence and masculine order, now there was a feminine warmth that I hadn’t known I’d been missing.
The first few weeks were a period of adjustment. Sofia and Olivia never left her side. If Valeria went to the bathroom, they waited at the door. If Valeria sat down in the garden, they played at her feet. They were terrified she would disappear again. I stayed in the background, giving them space, but always present. I wanted them to know that I was the pillar holding up the roof under which they now lived safely.
With Valeria, the relationship was… delicate. We slept in separate rooms out of respect for her recovery and the situation, but the nights were long. We often found ourselves in the kitchen at three in the morning, drinking warm milk, whispering about the past, rebuilding the bridges that had been burned. There was no sex, not even passionate kisses at first. Only caresses, intense glances, and the rebuilding of a trust that had been shattered.
The real healing came one Sunday afternoon. It was raining in Madrid, a downpour that made it impossible to go out into the garden. Doña Rosa, in an attempt to entertain the little terrors (the three children were climbing the walls with boredom), suggested baking cookies. “I’ll help!” shouted Lucas. “Us too!” seconded the twins.
Valeria, who was feeling much better, went downstairs to the kitchen. She was wearing a thick wool sweater and jeans that were starting to fit her better now that she was gaining weight. I stood in the doorway, watching. The kitchen was a controlled chaos. There was flour on the counter, eggshells on the floor, and the smell of vanilla and butter. “Okay, Olivia, pour the milk slowly…” Valeria said, guiding the girl’s hand. “Careful, it’ll spill!” Sofia squealed. “Booze it!” Lucas shouted, throwing a handful of chocolate chips that bounced everywhere.
And then, the accident happened. Lucas, in his enthusiasm, bumped the open flour sack with his elbow. The sack tipped over. And it tipped over right on top of Olivia. There was a deathly silence. Olivia was white. Literally. She looked like a ghost, covered in white dust from head to toe. She blinked, and a tiny cloud of dust rose from her eyelashes.
Sofia held her breath, staring at the adults, waiting for the shout, the punishment. In her old life with Marcos, spilling something like that would have meant a beating. I saw fear cross her gray eyes. Doña Rosa put her hands to her head. “Oh, my God! The floor!”
But Valeria didn’t scream. Valeria looked at her battered daughter and started to laugh. It was a soft laugh at first, but then Lucas joined in, pointing at Olivia. “You look like a snow ghost!” Olivia looked at her white hands. Then she looked at Lucas, grabbed a handful of flour from the counter, and threw it in his face. “Take that, ghost!”
Chaos erupted. “War!” Lucas shouted. Valeria, far from stopping him, grabbed another handful and looked at me, still standing in the doorway in my immaculate suit. “What are you doing?” I asked, backing away with a nervous smile. “Val, no. This suit is Armani.” “It’s an easy target,” she said with a malicious grin.
WHAM! The ball of flour hit me square in the chest, exploding in a white cloud that reached my chin. The kids froze. They’d gotten “Boss” all over me. Serious Dad. I looked down at my lapel. I ran my finger through the flour. I tasted it. Then I looked at Lucas, Sofía, Olivia, and Val. I slowly took off my jacket, threw it on the floor, and rolled up my shirt sleeves. “Oh, really?” I said in a stern voice. “You want a fight? Well, you’re going to get one.”
I grabbed the spare pack from the pantry. The kitchen turned into a white battlefield. Shouts, laughter, clouds of dust. Doña Rosa fled, crossing herself, but chuckling to herself. I chased Lucas around the kitchen island. Valeria ambushed Olivia. And in the middle of all that commotion, I heard the most beautiful sound in the world.
Sofia. Sofia was huddled in a corner near the refrigerator, covered in flour, folded in half, laughing uproariously. It wasn’t that shy, polite laugh she used to please. It was a deep, loud, childlike, free laugh. She laughed until her tummy hurt. She laughed without fear of being punished. She laughed because she was a seven-year-old girl playing with her family.
I stopped, flour falling from my hair, and met Valeria’s gaze through the white mist. She was also looking at Sofia, crying and laughing at the same time. In that instant, I knew we had won. Marcos may have left scars on her skin, but he hadn’t managed to kill her spirit.
That night, after bathing three battered children and putting them to bed, Valeria and I went out onto the balcony. The night air was cool, but no longer freezing. Spring was approaching. “Thank you,” she said, leaning against the railing. “Why?” I asked, going over to her. “For bringing back their laughter. I thought I’d never hear Sofia laugh like that again.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She let me, resting her head on my chest. “We’re a strange family, Val. An ex-mobster, a survivor, and three kids with way too much energy. But we’re a family.” “The best family,” she corrected.
She lifted her face and looked at me. The moonlight illuminated her honey-colored eyes. There were no shadows left in them, only the future. “I love you, Vicente. I never stopped.” “And I love you, Val. More than my own life.”
I kissed her. It was a kiss that tasted of flour and promises fulfilled. A kiss that sealed the end of winter and the beginning of an eternal spring for the Montoyas. From inside the house, we heard Lucas shout something in his sleep about a giant T-Rex. We laughed against each other’s lips. Life, at last, was good.
