“You’re not needed here,” he murmured.
I glanced at him. His eyes shone with impatience, as if he wanted to move on quickly, as if my father’s death were merely an interruption to his schedule. I didn’t reply. I just smiled. Because he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about what I was about to discover.
The funeral proceeded solemnly. Speeches, white flowers, somber glances. I remained silent, with the strength of someone who had awakened from a long slumber. Tomás, on the other hand, seemed annoyed by my distant behavior; he was used to me asking questions, doubting, obeying.
When we left the church, he turned to me to say something more, but his voice broke off abruptly. In front of the building, three black limousines were lined up in an immaculate row, gleaming against the gray sky.
Tomás paled.
“Who are those men?” he whispered.
The men stepped out of the vehicles: dark suits, professional bearing, each with perfectly coordinated movements. They weren’t ordinary bodyguards or hired chauffeurs. They were the kind of personnel who only work for those who have the power to pay for their silence and loyalty.
I approached him, placing a hand on his arm, as if we shared an intimate secret.
“They work for me,” I replied calmly.
