Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Glass
Ricardo’s private office was less of a study and more of a command bunker.
Monitors lined the wall, displaying live camera feeds of the canyon perimeter, the estate gates, and the surrounding oak forests. Thermal imaging maps of North America hummed quietly on a secondary screen.
Sitting behind a steel-and-glass desk, Ricardo poured two glasses of scotch. He pushed one toward me as I sat down.
“Drink,” he said. “You look like you’re about to faint.”
“I don't drink on the job,” I said, pushing the glass back. “Why are your children like this, Mr. Flores? And don't give me the PR answer Ms. Patterson gave me.”
Ricardo leaned back, swirling the golden liquid in his glass. The light captured the deep, white surgical scars running up his wrist into his sleeve.
“Their mother, Elena,” Ricardo said quietly, using my name for the first time without the formal title. “Her name was Sofia. Three years ago, a rival syndicate targeted my convoy while we were vacationing in Miami. They didn't hit my car. They hit the vehicle carrying Sofia and the children.”
I caught my breath.
“Sofia died instantly,” Ricardo revealed, his voice steady, devoid of self-pity, which made it ten times more gut-wrenching. “The children were trapped in the burning wreckage for forty minutes before my team pulled them out. Leo stopped speaking out loud that day—he only communicates through code and screens. Sofia stopped eating solid food for six months. Mateo started breaking things to prove he was still alive. And Valentina... Valentina took over her mother’s role, trying to protect her siblings by making sure no one ever gets close enough to hurt them again.”
The anger I had felt in the music room evaporated, replaced by a profound, heavy ache in my chest.
“They aren't spoiled,” I murmured. “They’re terrified.”
“They have driven away every nanny, security guard, and tutor I have brought into this house,” Ricardo said, looking directly at me. “They believe that if they make people hate them first, it won't hurt when those people inevitably leave or get killed.”
He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a black folder, and tossed it across the glass.
“Your mother, Clara Castillo,” Ricardo said. “Stage 3 renal failure. She’s currently on the waiting list for a private donor match at St. Jude’s in Los Angeles. The deposit is three hundred thousand dollars.”
My hands tightened on the edge of the desk. “You investigated me.”
“I investigate everyone who breathes the same air as my children,” Ricardo said coldly. “Stay for six months. Win my children over. Get them to play again. And tomorrow morning, your mother’s donor procedure will be fully funded, executed by the top surgeon in California.”
I looked at the folder, then at the man sitting across from me. He was a ruthless cartel kingpin, a man who dealt in violence and shadows. But looking into his silver eyes, I saw a desperate father willing to burn the world to save his broken children.
“One condition,” I said, standing up.
May you like
Ricardo raised an eyebrow. “You’re in no position to negotiate, Elena.”
“I don't want your guards in the music room,” I declared. “And I don't want you watching through the cameras when I teach them. You built a fortress to keep the world out, Mr. Flores. But all you’ve done is trap your children inside their own nightmare.”
