Days later, a trusted man of his called me.
—Octavio Beltrán already knows that you exist.
My blood ran cold.
That night I saw an unfamiliar van parked outside the boarding house for too long, and I realized the threat was real. I didn’t call Celia. I called my father.
—Dad… I need help.
He arrived in less than an hour. On the way, without taking my eyes off the wheel, I asked him:
—Did you ever regret raising someone else’s child?
He didn’t even think about it.
—Never. You are my son because I raised you, because I took care of you, and because I chose you every day.
After that, I stopped running away.
I met with Celia at a safe house. I saw her without makeup, without poise, without that elegance that used to dazzle me. She looked like a woman exhausted by her own doings.
