Diego swallowed.
“What’s your name?” he asked, forcing his voice to behave.
The girl clutched the basket tighter.
“Cecilia… sir,” she said softly.
The sound of the name landed like a blow.
Cecilia.
Ximena had said it a hundred times. If it’s a girl, she’d said, Cecilia—after my grandmother. Soft, strong, unbreakable.
Diego didn’t think. He reached into his pocket, pulled out cash, and bought the entire basket. He paid far more than necessary, added another bill without looking.
Cecilia’s eyes widened.
“No, sir… it’s too much.”
“It’s not,” he said gently. “And if you or your mother ever need anything—anything at all—call me.”
He handed her a business card. Not the one with assistants and corporate titles. The one with a private number only a few people had ever been given.
