Chapter 78
NARRATOR
Dawn barely dared to tear through the low clouds over Calgary. The cutting wind dragged snow and trash through the deserted streets. In the alleys of the industrial sector, Damián ran in a stagger, his coat torn and his face smeared with dried blood. Every breath stabbed his lungs.
Behind him echoed the sounds of the operation—shouts in English, military footsteps, engines roaring. He had escaped by seconds, slipping between containers while Sebastián’s men found the twins. He had lost everything: the truck, the money, the girls. But his heart was still beating.
He stopped against a wall covered in graffiti. His right arm bled relentlessly. He clenched his teeth and tore off a strip of his shirt to improvise a tourniquet.
“Bastards…” he growled, spitting saliva mixed with bile. “You’ll pay for every second.”
When the patrol lights moved away, he crossed the avenue and dragged himself toward an abandoned mechanic’s shop—broken windows, rusted tools, the smell of rancid oil. He collapsed to his knees, exhausted.
He pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked, but it worked. He dialed a number.
“Who the hell is this?” a male voice answered.
“It’s me. They screwed me, but I’m still alive. I need help.”
There was a calculated silence.
“We knew this would happen. Where are you?”
“Industrial sector, south Calgary. I don’t have time.”
“Stay there. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The call cut off. Damián slumped against the wall. The cold devoured him slowly, but it kept him conscious. He wasn’t going to die there. Not yet.
Twenty minutes later, a black van stopped in front of the shop. Two bulky men got out, faces hidden under hats and scarves.
“There he is,” the taller one murmured.
Damián struggled to his feet.
“You took your time.”
“The area was hot. We had to wait.”
They helped him inside. On the back seat there was a box: bandages, water, a pistol. Damián drank in desperate gulps.
“And the girls?” one of them asked.
Damián looked at him with pure rage.
“I lost them. But it doesn’t matter. They won’t get to keep them.”
The vehicle pulled away, taking secondary roads. They crossed a rusted bridge, ghost towns, until they stopped in front of a warehouse hidden at the edge of the forest.
“He’ll be safe here,” the driver said. “Nobody comes out this way.”
Damián got out, swaying. The cold was brutal. He cleaned the wound and wrapped himself in a blanket they tossed him.
“I need weapons, money, and a car.”
“We can get it. But you need to lie low for a few days. They’re looking for you all over the province.”
Damián smiled with sick, seething rage.
“Let them look. They have no idea who they’re dealing with.”
Meanwhile, at a Calgary hospital, another battle was being fought in silence.
Mateo paced the hallways with his hands clasped, face tense, eyes unfocused. Lucía followed a few steps behind, wrapped in a silence heavy with fear and hope.
The twins were being examined. The diagnosis was encouraging: mild hypothermia, nothing irreversible. Even so, both carried an invisible weight.
“I can’t believe we got them back,” Lucía whispered.
“Thank God,” Mateo replied without looking at her.
But his voice didn’t sound convinced.
When the nurses brought the girls into the room, the air changed. The little ones slept wrapped in clean blankets, their faces serene. Lucía bent over them and cried, touching their hair.
Mateo stood motionless, watching. For the first time since his vows, he felt his faith become something tangible, human. He looked at them as if they were a miracle he didn’t deserve.
“They’re called Isabella and Sofía,” Lucía said with a tired smile. “I couldn’t give them any other names.”
He stepped closer slowly. Took one tiny hand. The baby opened her eyes halfway.
They were the same color as his.
A brutal blow hit his chest—a stab of love and guilt intertwined. He said nothing. He couldn’t. The truth tore him apart from the inside: he was a priest with daughters, a man of God facing his own flesh. And he knew that sooner or later he would have to choose.
Later, when Lucía fell asleep beside the cribs, Mateo left the room. The icy air rushed in through the automatic doors. Outside, Sebastián and Santiago waited, smoking under the parking canopy.
“How are they?” Sebastián asked.
“Stable. Responding well.”
Santiago offered him a cigarette. Mateo hesitated, then accepted. He lit it and took a deep drag, watching the snow.
“It’s been years since I touched one.”
“It’s been years since you looked human,” Sebastián replied with a faint smile.
Santiago crossed his arms.
“So what do you plan to do now?”
Mateo lowered his gaze.
“I don’t know. For now, keep them safe. That bastard is still free, and as long as he is, they’re in danger.”
Santiago nodded.
“My men are tracking him. It wasn’t by chance that he escaped. Someone helped him.”
Sebastián crushed his cigarette underfoot.
“Take them to Italy. The house Mom left you is still empty. No one will find them there.”
Mateo sighed.
“And what do I tell the bishop? That I’m leaving because I have two daughters I shouldn’t have?”
Sebastián looked at him without blinking.
“You tell him you need a spiritual retreat. All priests do.”
Santiago stepped in, his tone grave:
“Take that time, Mateo. Protect what’s yours.”
Mateo looked at them, exhausted, confused. He didn’t want to admit it, but they knew him better than he knew himself.
Sebastián lit another cigarette.
“Sooner or later you’ll have to decide, brother. Either you keep being a priest… or you start being a father. You can’t live in both worlds without one of them devouring you.”
Mateo didn’t answer. The smoke mixed with the snow, dissolving into the air. Inside the hospital, his daughters slept. Miles away, his enemy breathed.
And he—caught between both worlds—knew he would no longer be able to escape either one.