“No,” you repeat, firmer. “If the board needs reassurance, tell them I’m awake. Tell them I’ll be on a call in twenty-four hours.”
Emiliano laughs like you made a cute joke.
“You can’t even sit up without looking like you’re about to pass out,” he says.
You hold his gaze.
“Try me,” you reply.
Silence stretches, thin and dangerous.
Your father’s jaw tightens.
Patricia’s lips press together like she’s swallowing words she can’t afford to say in front of witnesses.
Finally, your father nods once, stiff.
“We’ll talk later,” he says. “Rest.”
Patricia places the folder on the side table anyway, like leaving bait.
Emiliano gives you a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Get well soon,” he says. “We need you.”
They leave.
The moment the door clicks shut, you exhale like you’ve been underwater.
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
You reach under your pillow and pull out the letter again, as if reading it twice will make it less insane.
It doesn’t.
You press the call button for the nurse.
When she arrives, you keep your voice calm.
“I need to see the elderly woman who was brought in with me,” you say. “Now.”
The nurse hesitates.
“She’s not a patient here anymore,” she says gently. “She refused a full evaluation. She insisted on leaving after they cleaned her up.”
Your stomach drops.
“Where did she go?” you ask.
The nurse glances at the door, then back to you.
“She said she had somewhere safe to be,” she says. “She also told me to give you a message.”
Your fingers curl into the sheets.
“What message?”
The nurse lowers her voice.
“She said, ‘If he asks, tell him the green rosary is inside the old toolbox.’”
A chill moves down your spine like a hand.
Toolbox.
Your father’s office.
Your old memory flashes again: a tiny house in Tepito, a neighbor woman slipping you pan dulce and candies like she was smuggling kindness.
You whisper without meaning to.
“Lucía.”
The nurse blinks. “You know her?”
You swallow.
“Not exactly,” you lie. “But I need to talk to her.”
The nurse shakes her head.
“She wouldn’t give us an address,” she says. “Only her first name.”
You stare at the ceiling, trying to slow your mind, but it won’t.
Someone wanted you dead.
Someone is already trying to take your company.
And the only person who seems to know why has vanished into the city like a ghost.
You ask for your phone.
The nurse looks uncomfortable.
“Your family asked that we keep it secured,” she admits.
The anger that rises in you is sharp and clean.
“Get it,” you say. “Or I’ll have my attorney call your administrator.”
The nurse hesitates only a second, then nods and leaves.
When she returns, your phone feels heavier than usual, like it carries a new world.
You open it and scroll to the one person you trust without question.
Miguel.
Your driver.
Your employee.
Your witness.
You call.
He answers on the first ring, voice raw.
“Señor,” he says. “Thank God.”
“Where are you?” you ask.
“Police station,” he replies. “They’re taking my statement. They said it was an accident, but… that truck…”
His voice breaks.
You close your eyes.
“What about the truck?” you ask.
Miguel lowers his voice.
“It came straight at us,” he whispers. “No braking. No swerving. Like it was aiming.”
Your throat tightens.
“Listen carefully,” you say. “Don’t leave the station alone. Don’t go home. Don’t talk to anyone but the officer and your lawyer. I’m sending you someone.”
“Someone?” Miguel asks, confused.
You think quickly.
You can’t use your company security team if Emiliano gets to them first.
You can’t use your father’s contacts.
So you use the one person who doesn’t care about Sterling politics.
Your old friend from university, Tomás, who runs private security for diplomats and messy divorces.
You text him one line.
Need protective detail. No questions. Hospital ABC. Miguel. Now.
Then you open your notes and type two words.
Green rosary.
Your father’s office is in the Sterling headquarters in Santa Fe.
You can’t walk in there bandaged and bleeding.
But you can do something else.
You call your assistant, Fernanda, a woman who has been with you for seven years and has seen every version of you, including the exhausted one.
She answers immediately.
“Boss?” she says, shocked. “You’re awake?”
“Fernanda,” you say, voice steady, “I need you to do something for me, and it has to be quiet.”
Her pause is small but loyal.
“Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”
You swallow, then speak.
“Go to my father’s office. The one in the executive wing. There’s an old metal toolbox in the cabinet behind his bookshelf. Find it.”
Fernanda inhales.
“That’s… private,” she whispers.
“I know,” you say. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t life and death.”
Another pause.
“Okay,” she says, and you hear the steel in her voice. “What am I looking for?”
“A green rosary,” you reply. “And anything else that looks like it doesn’t belong.”
Fernanda’s breath is steady now.
