Chapter 3 - The Man Who Wanted Me Dead
Sebastián did not leave my penthouse alive because of mercy. He left because Sofia walked into the middle of the room holding a crayon drawing of me standing beside a badly proportioned horse. “Look,” she said. “Your legs work.” Sebastián stared at the picture. So did I. The moment broke something in me—not anger, exactly, but the instinct to react before thinking. I told my security chief, Javier, to escort Sebastián out and keep two men on him around the clock. Sebastián laughed as he walked toward the elevator. “You think I’m the villain because that’s easier.” “Give me another explanation.” He turned. “Ask María why Isabel was meeting Dr. Varela.”
The elevator closed.
María went pale.
I turned slowly. “You knew?” “Not everything.” “That sentence is becoming a problem.” She sat down. “Isabel believed Varela wanted to expose Helix. She met him twice.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because she made me promise.” “She’s dead.” “And promises to the dead are harder to break.”
Javier entered thirty minutes later carrying a tablet. “We found something.” Helix’s former chief neurologist, Mateo Varela, had not disappeared. He had changed his name and moved to a fishing village near Valencia. By dawn, we were on a private plane. María stayed with Sofia in Barcelona. I almost insisted Sofia remain far from the mess, but before I left, she wrapped a red string around my wrist. “For bravery.” “I own several security companies.” “That’s not the same thing.” I smiled despite myself.
Dr. Varela lived in a narrow white house near the sea. When he opened the door and saw me in the wheelchair, he nearly shut it again. Javier stopped him. “We’re not here to hurt you.” Varela laughed bitterly. “Everyone says that before hurting someone.” I held out Isabel’s letter. His expression collapsed.
Inside, he poured coffee but never drank his. “Your fiancée was brave,” he said. “And reckless.” “Tell me what happened.” “Helix was taking money from wealthy clients to manipulate disability evaluations, insurance claims, inheritance disputes. Sometimes they exaggerated injuries. Sometimes they minimized them. Your cousin Sebastián was one of several investors.” “Did he order my crash?” “No.” “How do you know?” “Because he tried to stop it.”
I stared at him.
Varela continued. “The person behind Helix was your uncle, Rafael Romero.” My father’s younger brother. Chairman emeritus of Romero Holdings. The man who had visited me every week after the crash, sat beside my bed, told me to accept God’s plan, encouraged me to step away from company leadership “for my health.”
My stomach turned.
“Why kill me?” I asked.
“You had discovered irregularities in property acquisitions. You were preparing an internal audit. Rafael believed you would expose a laundering network that had existed for twenty years.”
“And Isabel?”
“She learned more than you did.” Varela’s voice dropped. “She contacted me. I agreed to testify. The night of your crash, she was bringing you documents.”
I gripped the armrest.
“But you survived,” Varela said. “Rafael panicked. Killing you afterward would attract attention. So he chose something cleaner.”
“My diagnosis.”
Varela nodded. “Your injury was serious but potentially recoverable. Early rehabilitation mattered. Instead, Helix sedated you heavily, limited aggressive therapy, and falsified imaging. They convinced you recovery was impossible.”
I couldn’t speak.
Five years.
Five years of watching other men stand.
Five years of refusing therapy because I believed it was theater.
Five years of blaming my body.
“Sebastián found out six months later,” Varela said. “He threatened Rafael. Rafael threatened Sebastián’s family. After that, Sebastián helped bury records but secretly arranged for some evidence to survive.”
“Where?”
Varela stared at Isabel’s letter. “She hid the original files.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. She told me, ‘If Alejandro survives, María will eventually understand.’”
On the return flight, I called María. “What did Isabel give you besides the letter?” Silence. “María.” “A key.” “To what?” “I never knew.”
When we landed, she was waiting in my office with a tiny brass key on the table. Sofia sat beside her eating an apple. “Can I see?” Sofia asked. María handed it to her. The child turned it over in her fingers. “There are numbers.” I leaned closer. Tiny engraved digits ran along the edge: 417-22-9.
Javier frowned. “Storage unit?”
“Bank box,” María said.
By evening we had identified the branch: Banco Mercantil, old district. Box 417. Isabel had rented it under her mother’s maiden name.
The vault officer placed a narrow metal box on the table.
Inside were three flash drives, two notebooks, and a photograph.
The photo showed Rafael Romero standing beside a younger Dr. Varela outside Helix.
But Rafael wasn’t what froze me.
In the corner of the picture stood Félix Moreno, my restaurant manager.
The man who had tried to throw Sofia onto the street.
Written across the back in Isabel’s handwriting were six words:
Félix is the one who watches Alejandro.
My phone vibrated.
It was María.
I answered.
She was crying.
“Alejandro, Sofia is gone.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Someone took her from the restaurant.”
Then Javier’s phone buzzed.
A security image appeared.
May you like
Félix Moreno was guiding Sofia into a black car.
And Sofia was still wearing the red string’s matching bracelet.
