It was the true beginning.

The men who had come to the funeral escorted me to the family home in the Sarrià neighborhood, a spacious residence that Tomás had always envied. I never dared bring him there when my father was alive; Richard preferred to keep his distance from him from the first time he met him.

The group’s leader, Gabriel Knox, handed me a black folder.

“Your father instructed us to give this to you as soon as he passed away,” he explained.

My heart raced. I carefully opened the folder. Inside were bank documents, deeds to properties in Barcelona, ​​Málaga, and London, and a letter written in my father’s unmistakable handwriting.

I opened it.

“My dear Alexandra,