"Has he said anything yet?" I want to know, my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "About who sent him? Who ordered the kidnapping?"
The man's eyes snap to mine. Recognition flashes there. Something ugly and desperate. He knows who I am.
"No," Enzo answers before the man can speak. "He's been… resistant."
The flames roar louder, as if on cue. The man whimpers. A broken, animal sound that twists low in my gut. He's shaking now, teeth chattering despite the heat, tears cutting clean lines through soot on his cheeks. I'm not a medical professional, but I know that if he goes into shock, he won't be of any use to us.
I don't look away. I can't. Because this, this is the truth of it. This is what my son was dragged into. This is the world that reached into my life and took him like a bargaining chip. I don't know yet what I'm going to ask. But I know one thing with terrible clarity: I am done being shielded from the ugly parts of this war.
I don't rush him. I can tell that surprises Enzo. Men like this are used to shouting. To fists. To pain that comes fast and loud. They steel themselves for it, build walls around it. But silence—real silence—gets inside. Instead, I step closer until the heat kisses my skin, until sweat beads along my collarbone. He watches me with those frantic eyes, his chest is heaving, his breath hitches every time the flames surge. I crouch. Bring myself down to his level. He flinches, just a little, when our eyes meet.
"You're young," I state quietly. My voice doesn't echo. It doesn't need to. "I expected someone older," I continue, almost conversational. "Someone who'd already ruined their soul enough to sleep through this."
His lips tremble. He shakes his head once, violently, like he's trying to clear it. I glance at the tattoo on his neck again. Let my gaze linger there.
"You came into my house," I keep my voice calm and soft. "You walked past my child's room. You took him."
His breathing stutters. "I didn't, senora, I swear, it wasn't me."
I don't believe him. "I want you to understand something," I go on, steady as a metronome. "What's happening to you right now? This isn't revenge."
That makes him look at me properly.
"This is consequence." I straighten slowly and gesture toward the oven, not dramatically, just enough. "These men," I say, not looking at Enzo, but knowing he hears me, "they know how to hurt bodies." I look back at the boy. "I don't."
His eyes widen. Confused. Hope flickers there for half a second.
"And that," I add gently, "is why I'm the one talking to you."
I lean in, close enough that he can see the tears in my eyes, not falling, never falling, but there. Real. Burning.
"My son cried when you took him," my voice breaks slightly. The words scrape out of me, raw now. "Not loud. He's not loud when he's scared. He goes quiet. Did you notice that?"
A sound breaks out of him, half sob, half denial. "I never saw your son, senora, I swear."
I ignore it. Even if he wasn't with the men who broke into my house, he's still a man who knew about it and chose to do nothing. "I don't know your name," I continue, relentless but soft. "But someone does. Someone who sent you. Someone whowill sleep tonight believing you're strong enough to keep their secrets." I shake my head slowly. "They're wrong."
I reach out, not to touch him, but close enough that he feels the intention.
"You don't owe them anything," I point out. "They won't save you. They won't remember you. But if you tell me who ordered this—if you say the name—I will make sure one thing happens." His eyes lock on mine, desperate now. "I will make sure your mother knows what happened to you," I promise quietly. "And why."
That does it. It's like the last beam inside him collapses.
"No," he sobs. "Please—please?—"
"You don't have to be brave," I tell him. "You just have to be honest."
Silence stretches. Then his mouth opens. And the truth finally starts to bleed out. Enzo shifts beside me, and something like awe tightens his scarred face. Not because of what I did, but because of what I didn't do.
I don't look back at him. I keep my eyes on the boy. And I listen to him break. Not all at once. Not theatrically. It's a slow collapse, like something inside him has finally given up the pretense of strength.
"Joaquín," he whispers hoarsely. "Joaquín Beltrán."
The name doesn't mean anything to me. I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch Enzo's eye. A silent question.Does that mean anything?
Enzo nods once. Grave. Confirming.Yeah. It does.
Good. I look back at the boy, because that's what he is, really. A boy who made a series of terrible choices and ended up here. He's shaking now, his breath is coming in ragged pulls, and his eyes are glassy with pain and fear.
