Joaquín was already pulling out his gun, but hesitated. Shooting in broad daylight in the Salamanca neighborhood with dozens of cameras and witnesses wasn’t planned. Roberto got out of the BMWB, his face a mask of panic as he frantically dialed numbers on his phone, probably calling accomplices for Plan B. Diego grabbed Carlos’s arm and ran not toward Serrano Street, where Roberto could intercept them, but toward Retiro Park, through a broken gate that only someone who lived on the street could have seen.
They ran through the centuries-old chestnut trees, while sirens and screams rose behind them. Carlos, accustomed to the gym with a personal trainer but not to actual escape, felt his lungs burn and his legs weaken. Diego, on the other hand, moved with the agility of an urban animal, knowing every path, every hiding place. They only stopped after 20 minutes, hidden in an abandoned municipal gardener’s shed. Carlos was panting, his tailored suit ruined, his Italian shoes scuffed and dirty. For the first time in decades, he had no control over anything.
He looked at this boy who claimed to be his son, who had just saved him from certain death, and saw Elena Rodriguez looking back at him through those blue eyes identical to his own. The shed stank of mold and neglect, cobwebs in the corners and rusty tools piled up like bones in a charnel house. Carlos Mendoza, the man who regularly lunched with ministers and bishops, sat on a rotten wooden box, while his son—the thought still seemed impossible—saw through the disjointed boards.
Diego told his story in a flat voice, without dramatic emphasis, like someone who has learned that emotion is a luxury the street doesn’t grant. He had grown up in the Sanil de Fonso orphanage until he was 11, when a dying nun revealed the truth about his birth and gave him the letter Elena had left. A letter that spoke of love for a man who had betrayed her, of hope that one day father and son would be reunited.
of forgiveness even in despair. Having escaped from the orphanage, he had lived on the streets of Madrid, sleeping under bridges in the summer and in subway stations in the winter. He had learned to survive by robbing tourists in the Plaza Mayor, sharing expired food behind Mercadonas with other invisible people in the city. But above all, he had spent years searching for Carlos Mendoza. Studying him like an entomologist studies a rare insect. He knew every property of Carlos, every habit, every secret whispered in the halls of power.
He knew about the dirty business dealings with the Romanian mafia for land in Getafe, the bribes paid to municipal officials for planning permits, the suicides caused by evictions during the crisis, but above all, for a year he had been living in the shadow of the mansion in the Salamanca district, sleeping in the dumpster in the park, observing the gilded life that unfolded behind the gate. That’s how he had discovered Isabel’s plan. The phone conversations in the garden.
Are you enjoying this story? Leave a like and subscribe to the channel. Now we continue with the video. When she thought she was alone, meeting with Roberto every Tuesday and Thursday, when Carlos thought they were at the spa and the manager, she had seen the cash pass through the hands of the dealership’s mechanic. She had heard Joaquín, the head of security, confirm his part in the plan. Carlos listened, feeling his world crumble brick by brick. Not only had they almost murdered him, but he had been betrayed by everyone he thought was his.
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