I wrapped my fingers around the double Patrón Silver.
Grounded myself through the pressure of glass against skin.
I lifted it slowly.
Took a measured sip.
The tequila burned — clean and sharp — sliding down my throat and cutting through the tension tightening in my chest.
It anchored me.
My father watched every movement.
“You have every right to hate me, Elena,” he said softly. “But it’s not that simple. If you’d just listen — let me explain.”
His tone had shifted. Less shock now. More calculation.
I paused mid-sip and lowered the glass slightly.
A short laugh escaped me — humorless and sharp.
“Let you explain?”
I tilted my head.
“Explain what? Why you planned the death of my mother and my little brother? Why you abandoned a fifteen-year-old girl and left her to survive like she was nothing — like she had no family at all? Don’t insult me with excuses.”
My gaze locked onto his.
“We have nothing in common, Vasquez.”
I leaned slightly closer. “Nothing.”
He shifted on the stool.
Discomfort rippled across his expression.
The bartender approached again. “Sir, can I get you anything?”
Vasquez didn’t look at him.
He waved a dismissive hand.
“Nothing. I’m leaving soon.”
The bartender nodded and moved away.
My father reached into the inside pocket of his blazer.
His movements were slow. Intentional.
He pulled out a sleek black business card.
Gold foil embossing. No name. No company.
Just a phone number and a stylized letter V etched subtly into the surface.
He placed it on the bar and slid it toward me.
