Vasquez’s eyes drifted somewhere distant — not at me, but through memory.
“I loved her more than anything. I met her four years before we married. She was gentle. Soft. The kind of woman who made power feel irrelevant.”
His jaw tightened.
“We married. Your sister was born one year later. Then you. Then your brother.”
His fingers flexed around the baton.
“Was I not a good father?”
The question wasn’t rhetorical.
It demanded validation.
“Did I not provide? Protect? Put food on the table? Shield you all from the enemies who wanted my empire?”
His voice cracked — just slightly.
The baton lowered an inch.
His eyes locked onto mine with dangerous intensity.
“Then five months before your fifteenth birthday, your mother said she needed a vacation. Poland. She called it time alone.”
His lips thinned.
“I offered to come. Bring the kids. She refused.”
His breath grew heavier.
“Just her and your little brother.”
He swallowed.
“I allowed it. I trusted her.”
The baton trembled.
“I would have done anything to make her happy.”
He stepped closer again.
This time there was no space between rage and memory.
“She was bathing one afternoon. Her phone buzzed.”
My stomach twisted.
“I trusted her — God, I trusted her with my life. But curiosity... I glanced at the screen.”
His eyes darkened.
“Caller ID: Andrew. Polish number. The name felt foreign.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Then she burst out of the bathroom — robe half-on, water dripping from her hair — and saw my hand near the phone.”
