“Call whoever you want.” He laughed… until he realized who was on the other end of the line.

The night before, he had called an old friend.

Just one brief call.

“I’ll try it my way first,” José told him. “I want to see whether he has any decency left.”

From the other end, a deep voice answered:

—That sounds like you, Pepe. Go ahead. And if he doesn’t listen… call me and put him on.

The elevator doors opened on the thirty-fourth floor of the Del Valle Capital tower.

The receptionist looked up, blinked, then looked again.

The man stepping out was of that untraceable age sorrow leaves behind—he might have been sixty-five… or seventy-five. His brown jacket was torn at the sleeve; his shirt frayed at the collar; his trousers ripped at one knee. A faded canvas bag hung from his shoulder.

In his right hand, spotless and steady, a modern smartphone.

—I’m here to see attorney Máximo Del Valle. My name is José Franco.

The receptionist made the call. Laughter echoed from the other end, then a man’s voice said:

—Let him in. I want to see this.

The boardroom was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched behind Máximo like a painting he owned: gray sky, miniature traffic, rooftops fading into the distance.

Máximo appeared to be around fifty. Gray brushed neatly at his temples, a tailored light-blue suit, dark tie, and a watch worth more than the entire building on Laurel 117. Seated nearby were three associates: two young men with polished smiles and a woman in subtle pearls mirroring her boss’s expression with professional precision.

Don José remained standing.