THE MIRACLE OF THE STREETS

For two weeks, my life became a cycle of blood, sweat, and screams. Away from the prying eyes of my board of directors, I pushed my body through hell. With María by my side, wiping my face and whispering words of encouragement, I fought the dead weight of my own limbs. The first time I stood between the parallel bars, my legs buckled immediately, tearing a muscle in my calf. I blacked out from the pain. The next day, I demanded to try again.

Sofia continued to appear at my restaurant, always hungry, always saving half her meal for the boys at the station. But I couldn't be there. I was locked in a war with my own anatomy, driven by the memory of her tiny, brave hands.

Finally, Vargas arranged the meeting. El Alacrán demanded we meet at his territory—an abandoned, rust-covered shipping yard on the outskirts of Barcelona.

My armored SUV rolled into the yard under the cover of darkness. Vargas and four heavily armed private contractors stepped out first. Then, the hydraulic lift lowered my wheelchair to the broken concrete.

El Alacrán was a rat-faced man with a gold tooth and a cheap silk suit. He was surrounded by a dozen armed thugs. He looked at my wheelchair and smirked.

"Alejandro Romero. The crippled king," he sneered. "I hear you have taken an interest in one of my little earners. Sofia."

"She is a child, not an earner," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "I am here to buy her contract. And the contracts of every child in your possession."

El Alacrán laughed, a grating, ugly sound. "They aren't for sale. They are my retirement fund. But... since you are so desperate, I will make an exception for Sofia. Ten million euros. Cash. By tomorrow midnight. If you contact the authorities, she disappears into a cargo container bound for a very dark place."

He leaned closer, blowing cigar smoke into my face. "You have all the money in the world, Romero. But you have no power here. You can't even stand up to look me in the eye."