But when he walked into my humble workshop and saw me with my baby in my arms, the miracle no one expected happened.
PART 1: THE NOISE OF SILENCE
Sebastián Moreno didn’t belong in my world. That was the first thing I thought when I saw his shiny black Mercedes AMG pull up in front of my garage in the Carabanchel neighborhood here in Madrid. My world smelled of burnt oil, clean diapers, and reheated coffee. His world, I could bet, smelled of Italian leather, air-conditioned offices on Paseo de la Castellana, and that expensive cologne that lingers in the air long after the person has left.
I was under an old SEAT León, wrestling with a rusty oil pan that refused to budge. Mateo, my eight-month-old son, was in his playpen in the safest corner of the workshop, babbling and banging a plastic wrench against the bars. It was our daily symphony.
“Hello?” A deep voice echoed from the entrance. It wasn’t the voice of my usual clients, neighbors worried about the price of their vehicle inspection, or taxi drivers in a hurry. It was a voice accustomed to giving orders and having them carried out instantly.
I slid out on the wheeled stretcher, wiping my hands on a rag that had seen better days. I stood up, brushing the dust off my blue overalls.
“Just a second,” I said, pushing a strand of hair away from my face. I knew I had a grease stain on my cheek; I always did.
Standing before me was Sebastián Moreno. I recognized him from the business magazines I sometimes skimmed at the newsstand when I dreamed of a different life. The richest man in the hospitality industry in Spain. Impeccable suit, shoes that cost more than my van, and a defeated expression that didn’t suit his status.
“I’m looking for Valeria Torres,” he said, looking around skeptically. His eyes flicked from the tools hanging on the wall to the concrete floor and finally settled on Mateo. The baby looked back at him with those big, dark eyes, full of curiosity, and let out a toothless giggle. Sebastián blinked, taken aback.
“It’s me,” I replied, crossing my arms. I wasn’t intimidated. Single motherhood and mechanical engineering knock shyness out of you. “And that’s my boss, Mateo. How can I help you, Mr. Moreno?”
Sebastián seemed surprised that I knew his name, or perhaps that I wasn’t trembling in his presence.
“A contact, Marco, told me that you take on… hopeless cases.”
“I prefer to call them ‘complex challenges,’” I corrected, walking over to the playpen to pick up Mateo, who was starting to fuss. I settled him in the ergonomic baby carrier I always wore. Feeling his warmth against my chest gave me strength. What’s broken?
Sebastián sighed, and in that sigh I heard the weight of a deep sadness.
“A Bugatti Veyron. 2015 Special Edition. The engine is destroyed.”
I let out a low whistle. A W16. Four turbos. Sixteen cylinders. A beast of engineering.
“What happened to it?”
“A stupid race on a private track. I pushed it. I wanted to feel… I wanted to feel my father. It was his last gift before he died. And now it’s scrap metal. Nine engineers have looked at it. French, German, Italian. They all say the same thing: too risky. One mistake and the engine block is unusable. Nobody wants to tarnish their reputation by touching a three-million-euro car.”
He looked at me intently, defiant and pleading at the same time.
“Marco told me you worked in the turbine division at Airbus in Getafe. That it’s brilliant. And that you’re crazy or desperate enough to try it.”
I felt a twinge in my pride.
“I left Airbus because it’s not a place for a single mother who doesn’t have anyone to look after her child when they have a fever,” I said firmly, stroking Mateo’s back. “And yes, I’m desperate. The rent for this place and my apartment goes up next month, and changing the oil in the taxis isn’t going to make me rich. But I’m not crazy. I’m a good person.”
“Prove it to me,” he said.
“Bring the car. If I can’t fix it, I won’t charge you a thing. Zero euros. But if I get it roaring again… you’ll pay me 150,000 euros. Half upfront for parts, and the rest at the end.”
Sebastián raised an eyebrow. It was a lot of money, but for him it was pocket change. For me, it was life. It was Mateo’s university education. It was security.
“Done.”
PART 2: THE HEART OF THE BEAST
The next day, a flatbed tow truck unloaded the Bugatti into my garage. The neighbors in Carabanchel came out onto their balconies. It’s not every day you see a midnight-blue spaceship land among brick buildings.
When the tarp dropped and I saw the engine, I felt dizzy. It was worse than I’d imagined. The heat had melted components, the pistons were shattered, the crankshaft looked like a twisted modern art sculpture.
“My God,” I whispered. Mateo, sensing my tension, stirred in his baby carrier.
Sebastián was there, watching me.
“Impossible?” he asked, his hope fading.
I took out my flashlight and
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