Chapter 106: “THE FINAL PROOF ISN’T ON PAPER”

We left the Moretti estate under a rain that no longer felt like water, but like the grimy weeping of a city stripping off its masks. The weight of Don Matteo’s words hammered at the base of my skull: “Ask Ramírez. He was the last one to see him alive.” My mentor. My compass. The man who taught me that the truth was sacred had turned out to be the one who likely pressed the seal of silence onto my father’s throat in an ambulance that never arrived.

—Valentina, get in the car. Now —Alessio’s voice snapped me out of the trance. It wasn't the voice of the man who had kissed me in the bunker. It was the voice of an operative. Cold, cutting, leaving no room for doubt.

I got in. The Mercedes fishtailed across the slick pavement, but Alessio didn't turn on the radio or offer any comfort. His eyes were glued to the rearview mirror, scanning every pair of headlights that flickered behind us.

—We’re not going to look for Ramírez —I said, squeezing the 100-coin in my pocket until the metal bit into my palm—. If Don Matteo gave him up that easily, it’s because Ramírez already knows we know. He’ll be either barricaded or gone.

—Ramírez is paper, Valentina. And paper burns —Alessio took a sharp, violent turn, plunging us into the labyrinth of streets leading down to the docks—. My father is right about one thing: Directory 5 is technical evidence, but in a San Avelino court, judges use bytes as toilet paper. We need a voice. Someone who can't be erased by a VENTO algorithm.

My phone buzzed. The sound made me bolt upright. It wasn't Ramírez. It wasn't Marco. It was a message from Rutaensombra.

“Paper is the map. Man is the destination. 'Gato' Olmos didn’t die at the Costanera. They have him 'stored' in the cold-storage units, south sector. Look for the white smoke.”

—It’s Vitral —I whispered, showing the screen to Alessio—. Gato Olmos. He was the foreman for Module B. The one who signed the receipts for Belmonte’s defective materials. He was supposed to have committed suicide a month after my dad’s accident.

—In this city, suicide is the forced retirement plan for people who know too much —Alessio accelerated, and for the first time, I felt like the speed wasn't for escaping, but for hunting—. If Olmos is alive, he’s the only silver bullet we have left.

We reached the southern edge of the Avelino River, where the water is the color of crude oil and the piers look like the ribs of a dead animal. The air smelled of salt, rust, and ammonia. Alessio killed the engine in an alley three hundred yards from the cold-storage units. He stepped out and popped the trunk.

I watched him pull out a light tactical vest and cinch it under his leather jacket. He drew a second pistol, checked the magazine with a sharp click, and tucked it into his ankle holster. There was no romanticism in his movements. He didn't look at me to say everything would be fine. He didn't ask me to stay in the car "for my safety." He knew that if he left me behind, I’d get out anyway.

—Listen to me, Ríos —he said, grabbing my shoulders with a firmness that made it clear the game had changed—. This isn't a Sunday feature. If we go in there, we’re breaking Belmonte’s "stability" protocols. There will be no warnings. If someone draws a weapon, I’m shooting to kill. You stay on my back. If I tell you to hit the floor, you hit it. If I tell you to run, you don't look back. Understood?

—Understood —I replied. My voice didn't waver, which surprised even me. The rage against Ramírez had anesthetized the fear.

We moved through the shadows. The "white smoke" from the message was the vapor from the ammonia condensers of an old meatpacking plant listed as "abandoned" on the city's land registry. Another VENTO lie.

Alessio moved like a predator. Every time we crossed a patch of light, he had already scanned the blind spots. He wasn't a boyfriend protecting his girl; he was a Moretti clearing obstacles on the path to the truth.

He pried open a side door with a crowbar—the sound was a dry clack that was swallowed by the roar of the plant’s engines. We entered a maze of narrow corridors, grime-caked tiles, and a cold that seeped into my bones. At the end of a hallway, two men in Austral Logistics jackets—Belmonte’s people—were smoking near a reinforced door.

Alessio didn't hesitate. There was no dialogue. He lunged at them with surgical violence. He disarmed the first one with a strike to the windpipe and slammed him against the wall. He drove a knee into the second one’s gut before the man could reach for his radio, knocking him unconscious with a heavy blow from his pistol grip. The whole thing lasted six seconds.

—The keys —he ordered, gesturing to the belt of the man on the floor.

I grabbed them. My hands were freezing. We unlocked the door.

The room was small, lit by a single flickering bulb. It smelled of urine, reheated food, and old fear. Sitting on an iron bed was a man who looked like he’d been carved out of shadow. He was gaunt, his hair gray and matted, his eyes sunken into pits that looked like wells.

It was Gato Olmos. The man who, according to the papers, had jumped off a bridge ten years ago.

When he saw us, he didn't scream. He didn't cry for help. He covered his face with his hands and began to shake.

—It’s time, isn't it? —his voice was a broken rasp—. Did Belmonte send you? Or was it Don Matteo? Just make it quick. Please. I don't want to wake up tomorrow.

I stepped toward him, ignoring Alessio’s warning gesture. —We’re not them, Olmos. My name is Valentina Ríos. I’m Héctor Serrano’s daughter.

The man froze. Slowly, he lowered his hands. His eyes searched my face with a mixture of horror and fascination, as if he were looking at a ghost.

—Héctor… —he whispered—. You have his eyes. Damn it, you have his same stubborn eyes.

—My father didn't die because of human error, Olmos. You know that. You signed the receipts for the cheap steel. You saw what happened in the ambulance —I knelt in front of him, forcing him to hold my gaze—. I need you to talk. I need that voice you’ve been holding back to be the nail in the coffin for Belmonte and Ramírez.

Olmos let out a hysterical laugh that turned into a coughing fit. He clutched his chest, gasping for air.

—Justice? In San Avelino? —He looked at Alessio and then back at me—. Look where I am, kid. They keep me here like a dog so that the day they need a fall guy, I turn up dead with a suicide note they wrote themselves. Belmonte pays for my food so I don't talk, and Moretti pays for my oxygen so Belmonte doesn't sleep soundly. I’m an insurance policy, not a witness.

—Not anymore —I said, pulling out my phone—. Marco is recording. Ramírez is exposed. Directory 5 is already on the web. You’re the last piece, Olmos.

Olmos recoiled, pressing himself against the damp wall. The terror on his face was physical, almost nauseating. He didn't see himself as a survivor, but as a dead man who was still breathing.

—You don't understand… —Olmos wheezed—. It’s not Belmonte. It’s not the money. It’s what they did to Héctor after he fell. I was in the ambulance. Héctor was alive, Valentina. He grabbed my hand and said: “I have the sub-file, Gato. I have it with me.” And then he came in.

—Ramírez? —I asked, feeling the air turn to lead.

Olmos nodded, tears beginning to track through the grime on his cheeks.

—He didn't come in to save him. He came for the paper. And when Héctor wouldn't give it to him… Ramírez pressed his hand over the oxygen mask. He looked him in the eye and squeezed. I didn't do anything. I just sat there, watching your old man fade away because I was too afraid I’d be next.

The world tilted. The cold of the plant vanished, replaced by a white fire burning inside me. Ramírez had killed him. Not with an order, but with his own hands.

—You have to testify to this, Olmos —Alessio said, stepping forward—. We’re getting you out of here.

Olmos looked up at Alessio and then at the open door. We heard the sound of engines approaching outside. Light bars began to filter through the vapor from the exterior. Vans. Many of them.

Gato Olmos looked at me with a plea that broke my soul. He grabbed a shard of broken glass from a bottle on the floor and pressed it to his throat before Alessio could react.

—Don't take me out —Olmos begged, the glass cutting into his skin—. If I leave this place, they’ll do things to me that are worse than killing me. Belmonte has my daughter. R-Δ knows where my grandkids are.

Olmos began to sob with absolute despair, pressing the glass a millimeter deeper.

—Valentina, please… let me die. I’d rather they kill me now than have to live one more minute with the fear of them finding me alive.

Outside, the sound of van doors slamming shut rang out like a mass execution. Gato Olmos was alive, yes. But he was so dead with fear that the truth seemed like the most expensive price in the world.