Rain fell relentlessly over the stone streets of San Miguel de Allende, striking the old cobblestones with a rhythm that felt almost deliberate, as if the sky were knocking, demanding to be heard.
Water rushed through the narrow gutters, carrying dust, petals, and fragments of a day that refused to stay whole.
From the back seat of a black armored SUV, Diego Salazar watched it all through tinted glass. Thin rivers slid down the window, distorting the colonial facades outside, bending reality into something softer, sadder. At thirty-six, Diego owned more than most men would dare to dream of—servers, patents, companies spread across continents. He could buy time, silence, influence.
But there was one thing money had never returned to him.
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