In another country, thousands of miles away,
Santiago sat at his desk, a neat stack of paperwork in front of him. The room was quiet except for the sound of his pen scratching against the paper as he signed document after document. His sharp eyes scanned each page with precision, his mind focused on the tasks at hand.
A knock at the door broke his concentration. Without looking up, he said, “Come in.”
The door opened, and a tall, composed woman stepped inside, holding a slim file in her hands. Her black blazer and neat appearance suggested professionalism, but her eyes carried a hint of urgency. She walked to the desk and placed the file in front of Santiago.
“Esmeralda is safe,” she said in a calm, measured tone. “Diego is dead. She killed him herself.”
Santiago paused, his pen hove
