“You’re not a father, Diego,” I said quietly.
“You were just an obstacle that my son overcame.”
The heavy wooden doors of the examination room were closed behind him with a resounding, blunt and majestic *PLAF*.
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Forty-eight hours later.
The morning sun burst warm, golden and spotless over the imposing modern glass architecture of the **Wilkie D. Ferguson Jr. in downtown Miami**.
I sat in the private executive consultation suite, with wooden panels, of the **U.S. Prosecutor’s Office** on the twelfth floor, holding a cup of hot chamomile tea in my hands.
Next to me were sitting the **Dr. Salinas** and **Special Agent Marcus Vance**.
On the mahogany table that separated us, there were three records of sealed evidence with red edges, a check certified by **Fourteen million dollars** in liquidity preliminarily recovered from the inheritance, and the master keys of my grandfather’s ancestral coastal estate in Coconut Grove.
Marcus hit the central folder, with a severe, gloomy and intensely concentrated expression:
“Laura,” Marcus said, lowering his voice to an encrypted, inaudible record that put my hair on end.
I left the cup of tea on the saucer. “What’s up, Marcus?” Diego and Paula are in federal custody. Arthur Vance was arrested yesterday morning at his Palm Beach country club. The property is insured.
Marcus slowly turned the third folder toward me.
The folder was sealed with a ranking mark that I had never seen before: **HIGH SECRET // SPECIAL ACCESS REQUIRED (TS/SCI) — OMEGA CODE**.
“Diego and Paula were the ones who made peace at home, Laura,” Marcus revealed in a firm voice like iron.
