I was kind of mesmerized as she moved yesterday, and I tried very hard to ignore how attractive she is, but it was in vain. The long brown hair, fair skin, and huge blue eyes make it impossible to remain indifferent.
She said she works Friday and Saturday nights. I wonder if she’s on shift tonight. That neighborhood is very dangerous, especially for a girl as beautiful and young as her.
I need to think about how to help her until I can decide on a final solution. In the future, I’ll have to explain how I found out about her existence, and I’m not looking forward to that day at all because I know she’ll suffer, especially when I reveal the whole story.
When I decided to go after Olívia, it was primarily for Nina, because I would like my daughter to have some maternal relatives nearby. Still, I hesitated and decided to see her in person even before the report arrived because if I realized she was in any way like Layla, I would never allow her to get close to Valentina. Now, however, my concern for the girl is real. For her safety, I mean. Sweet as she is, she’s an easy target for scumbags.
I decide that on Monday I’ll go back to the café.
I’ll suggest bringing her on to the headquarters staff. That way, she’ll be under my protection, and on top of that, I’ll have the opportunity to get to know her better—for Valentina, of course. I saw in the report that the health insurance where she’s working is very precarious. Combining that with her debts, maybe if she has a good financial incentive, she’ll give up staying in that scary place.
Satisfied that I’ve managed to put my problems into perspective, I finally close my eyes, trying to relax.
Chapter 7
Four Days Later
I couldn’t come earlier as planned. A series of unforeseen events forced me to work from home.
Besides that, my father’s health required more attention, and Nina was still feeling sick because of her teething. The babysitter who usually stays with her at my mother’s house was absent. It’s not easy to find someone trustworthy or to replace an employee to take care of my most precious possession, so my plans to get Olívia out of the dump where she works had to wait.
While the driver parks in front of the rundown café, I try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing, even though I’m not acting with the prudence that usually guides me. When you grow up with the number of responsibilities I did, you need to calculate every step, as your family depends on your decisions to avoid trouble.
That’s how I intended to handle my relationship with Olívia too. The only problem is that I couldn’t stop thinking about her having to go back home to this neighborhood at night. So, instead of waiting to get to know her a little better before getting so close, I decided to take action. Part of me says thatshe has managed well so far without any help, but the other part, the one accustomed to taking care of my responsibilities, screams that I get her out of this neighborhood.
“Do you want me to wait for you here, Mr. Guillermo?”
“Stop that.” I don’t usually ask for a driver, because I like to drive myself, but when I do, I request Simon. He has been working for my mother for thirty years, which means he knew me when I was five years old. I’ve told him a thousand times that I don’t want him to call me “Mr.” or “sir,” but he doesn’t care about what I want. Simon just does what he wants and is as formal as an English butler—which goes completely against the grain of my family.
“I don’t feel comfortable calling you by your first name.”
“For God’s sake, you used to take me to the playground. Why do you keep insisting on using titles with me?”
He doesn’t respond, and I’m sure that when we speak next time, he will use “Mr.” again. For now, I give up our little battle.
“I don’t think I’ll be long, but you can take a drive if you want. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
I get out of the car and sigh, once again annoyed by her working here.
I still can’t believe that even knowing who she was, Layla allowed the girl to continue living a life of sacrifice. This is just further proof of how selfish and self-centered my late wife was.
I notice people staring at me as I walk along the sidewalk, and I recall Olívia’s observations from when I came here the previous week. She has a somewhat twisted sense of humor, but I can’t deny that, even against my will, her quips amused me.
When I open the door, a kind of shrill bell rings, and a waitress with red hair stares at me. The woman looks tired, as if she has seen enough of the world and what she’s seen so far hasn’t pleased her.
“Good morning, sir. You can choose a table,” she says, though her gaze betrays the same disbelief I saw in Olívia’s the first time I was here.
I am momentarily unsure how to act, because it took me only a few seconds to realize that the person I am looking for is not in the establishment.
“I’d like to speak with Olívia,” I finally say.
She drops the dishcloth she was using to dry a glass, and her eyes widen in surprise. “Olívia? Are you sure?” she asks, skepticism evident in her tone.
I hold back my irritation because I need her to provide the information I desire. “Yes. She’s not here at the moment, as far as I can tell. Is it her day off?”
“Olívia no longer works here. She got fired.”
How could she not work here anymore? It’s only been a few days since we last spoke.
