Mexico’s most feared drug lord was about to fire the maid for hitting his blind daughter, but what he discovered in the basement chilled him to the bone…
Fausto Beltrán, known in the underworld as “The Lion,” heard the sound before opening the heavy mahogany door to the basement of his mansion in Jardines del Pedregal. Crack. Crack. Crack.
It wasn’t a sound that belonged to the purchased tranquility of his home. It wasn’t the clinking of Baccarat crystal, nor the distant echo of Mexico City sirens, nor anything he recognized from his world of criminal logistics and organized violence. It was wood against wood. Dry. Rhythmic. A strange, tribal heartbeat.
He descended the marble steps with silent steps, a legacy of his years in the mountains. He was still wearing his wool coat, the knot of his tie tightening around his neck like a silk rope. He had returned early from a meeting in Santa Fe, with that unease in his chest that had so often saved his life. Something wasn’t right. His instinct, that animal that lived in his gut, had whispered to him: “Go home.”
He stopped at the half-open basement door and peered through the crack. The scene that unfolded before his eyes defied all logic.
Valentina stood in the center of the room, barefoot on the cold floor. She was twelve years old, her straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail that was coming undone, her neck beaded with sweat. Her cloudy eyes, white as they were from birth, stared into a blank space. And yet, her body was on high alert, as if she could see every inch of that room with her skin.
In front of her, circling like a patient predator, was Isolda, the housekeeper who had worked at the mansion for eight months. She was a woman with strong features, from Oaxaca, silent as a shadow. She also had a wooden stick—a broom handle cut short—and she tapped it rhythmically against her own palm, marking an irregular beat.
“Again,” the woman said, her voice unrecognizable. It wasn’t the voice of the maid asking if she wanted coffee. It was a commanding voice, cold and professional. “Attack!”
Isolda’s stick sliced through the air with a sharp whistle. Valentina didn’t move away. She didn’t cover her head in fear, as Fausto might have expected. She stepped toward the sound, raised her own stick diagonally, and blocked the blow with a timing that made Fausto’s heart stop for a second.
Crack! The impact echoed off the volcanic stone walls.
“Good,” Isolda said. “But you hesitated, my dear. Hesitation is death. Listen to the air, Valentina. A blow announces itself before it touches you. The wind shifts.” “I’m trying…” the girl gasped, her chest rising and falling. “Don’t try. Do it. Or I’ll break your ribs.”
Three quick blows: high, low, high. Valentina blocked the first two with astonishing fluidity, but the third caught her hip. She doubled over, gasped with a hiss of pain, but didn’t cry. Fausto felt a mixture of admiration and blind fury. He pushed open the door violently.
The sound of Valentina’s stick hitting the floor was abrupt, almost obscene in the sudden silence. “What the hell is this?” His voice came out low, restrained, with that guttural tone that preceded death sentences in the cartel.
Valentina smiled at his words, an automatic smile of relief that morphed into a grimace. “Dad, you’re early…” The smile vanished when she heard the sound of her name on her father’s lips: harsh, dangerous.
Isolda took a step, positioning herself just a little in front of the girl. It was a minimal, almost suicidal gesture. Fausto noticed it, and it enraged him even more. “I asked you a question,” he muttered, fixing his dark eyes on the maid. “What the hell are you doing with my daughter?”
“Teaching her,” she replied without blinking. Not a tremor in her voice. “Teaching her what? To get killed? She’s blind, damn it! She can barely go down the stairs without holding onto the banister.” “That’s not true,” Valentina’s voice broke, filled with a wounded dignity Fausto had never known. “I can do more than you think, Dad. I’m not a baby anymore!”
“Go up to your room, Valentina,” he ordered, pointing to the stairs even though she couldn’t see him. “No, listen to me…” “I said go up!”
The order sliced through the air like a machete blow. Valentina clenched her jaw, let her shoulders slump, and started up the stairs. Fausto watched her with a mixture of anger and fear… and he couldn’t ignore the detail: she climbed quickly, her knuckles brushing the wall, without stumbling once.
Only when the echo of her footsteps faded upstairs did Fausto turn to Isolda. “You’re fired. I want you out of my house in ten minutes.” “No, I’m not.” Her insolence left him speechless for a second. The man feared by governors and police alike was paralyzed by the audacity of a domestic servant. “Excuse me, what did you say?”
“You’re not going to fire me,” she repeated calmly. “Because you know I’m right, Don Fausto. You’ve surrounded Valentina with guards, but…”
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