Chapter 2 - The Queen of Numbers
The interior of the Morales estate was terrifying in its silence. Every surface seemed to be made of polished marble, mahogany, or glass. I stood in the center of a sweeping entrance hall, clutching the oversized woolen coat around my chest, acutely aware of the dried canal mud flaking off my skin and staining the pristine floor.
A elderly woman in a neat black uniform appeared from a side corridor, her face an unreadable mask.
"Carmen," Morales said, stripping off his soaked suit jacket and dropping it onto a bench. "Take the boy upstairs. Give him a hot shower, find him clothes that fit, and bring him to my study when he is clean. Feed him whatever he wants."
"Yes, Don Gabriel," she said softly. She turned to me, offering a gentle nod. "Follow me, child."
An hour later, I felt like a different human being, though I wasn't sure I recognized the person reflected in the bathroom mirror. The canal grime was gone, washed away by endless hot water and thick soap. I wore a clean white shirt and dark trousers that Carmen had altered with rapid, expert stitches to fit my lean frame. On my feet were actual leather shoes—the first I had worn since the day my grandmother was buried in a pauper's grave.
When Carmen guided me into Morales’s private study, the crime boss had also changed. He wore a simple black turtleneck and slacks, standing before a roaring stone fireplace with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The room smelled of cedarwood, old paper, and burning logs.
"Sit," Morales instructed, pointing to a leather armchair near the fire. On the table beside it sat a silver tray piled high with roasted meat, warm bread, and a bowl of thick stew.
My stomach growled violently. I hadn't eaten a real meal in three days. But I forced myself to stand by the chair, my fists clenched at my sides.
"I won't eat your food until you tell me the truth about my grandmother," I said.
Morales paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. A faint, genuine smile touched the corners of his lips. "You have her stubbornness. Elena never took a seat until she knew the terms of the room either." He gestured toward the plate again. "Eat, Julian. I will speak while you dine. That is my word."
I sank into the chair and picked up a piece of bread, tearing into it with a fierce hunger while keeping my eyes locked on him.
"Thirty years ago, before I controlled this city, I was just a smuggler trying to survive against the old cartels," Morales began, his voice low and rhythmic against the crackle of the fire. "Your grandmother came to me looking for work. She was twenty-five, brilliant, and fearless. We called her the Queen of Numbers."
"She was an accountant?" I asked between mouthfuls of stew.
"She was a strategist," Morales corrected. "She designed the financial architecture of my entire empire. She knew every bribe, every account, every shipping route, and every politician in our pocket. But more than that, she was my conscience. When the violence became too heavy, Elena was the one who reminded me that an empire built only on blood eventually drowns in it."
He walked over to a heavy mahogany desk and unlocked a drawer, pulling out a faded photograph. He laid it on the table beside my plate. I looked down and my breath hitched. It was my grandmother, young and striking, wearing a sharp tailored suit, standing beside a much younger Gabriel Morales on a bustling shipping dock.
"Why did she leave?" I whispered, tracing the image of her face with my finger.
"Because your father was born," Morales said heavily. "She wanted him out of the life. She demanded her freedom, and because of what she meant to me, I let her walk away. But ten years ago, when your parents were killed in that car crash, she panicked. She believed my enemies were targeting my old associates. She took you, vanished into the slums of San Marcos, and severed all contact."
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"And the secret?" I asked. "What did she take from you?"
"The Master Ledger," Morales said, his eyes turning cold. "An encrypted notebook containing the names of every corrupt official, every traitor, and every offshore account tied to the San Marcos underworld. Whoever holds that ledger holds the power to dismantle my organization—or rule this city."
