When we left the church, he turned to me to say something more, but his voice broke off abruptly. In front of the building, three black limousines were lined up in an immaculate row, gleaming against the gray sky.

Tomás paled.

“Who are those men?” he whispered.

The men stepped out of the vehicles: dark suits, professional bearing, each with perfectly coordinated movements. They weren’t ordinary bodyguards or hired chauffeurs. They were the kind of personnel who only work for those who have the power to pay for their silence and loyalty.

I approached him, placing a hand on his arm, as if we shared an intimate secret.

“They work for me,” I replied calmly.