CHAPTER 7 — THE MAN WHO SHOULD HAVE BEEN DEAD
The words stayed in Ricardo’s mind.
Gabriel Galván.
His father’s brother.
A man whose name had been erased from family history before Ricardo was old enough to understand why.
A man everyone had told him was dead.
For thirty-eight years.
Ricardo stared at Valeria.
“You knew?”
Valeria lowered her eyes.
“Yes.”
The answer was barely audible.
Ricardo felt something inside him go cold.
“How long?”
She swallowed.
“Since before Diego was born.”
Ricardo stepped toward her.
“You knew my uncle was alive before my son was born?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
“I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t?”
Ricardo laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“You drugged my son. You lied to me. You let me believe you were protecting him. And now you’re telling me you knew my supposedly dead uncle was alive before Diego was even born?”
Valeria looked at him.
“You don't understand what Gabriel is.”
“Then explain.”
“I’m trying.”
“No.”
Ricardo’s voice hardened.
“You’re trying to survive.”
Valeria said nothing.
That silence told him enough.
Ricardo turned toward Mateo.
“What does Gabriel want?”
Mateo leaned against the wooden table.
“You’re asking the wrong question.”
Ricardo looked at him.
“Then give me the right one.”
Mateo’s expression changed.
“What does Gabriel believe belongs to him?”
Ricardo froze.
“Money?”
Mateo shook his head.
“Not money.”
“Galván Holdings?”
“No.”
Mateo looked toward the closed door.
“Blood.”
The room became silent.
Ricardo’s jaw tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Mateo didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he walked toward an old cabinet.
He unlocked it.
Inside were dozens of folders.
Some were yellow with age.
Others looked newer.
Mateo pulled out one marked:
GABRIEL GALVÁN — 1988–PRESENT
He placed it on the table.
Ricardo stared at it.
“You kept records on him.”
“We kept records on everyone who survived.”
Ricardo opened the folder.
The first photograph was of a young man standing beside Ricardo’s father.
Two brothers.
One smiling.
One expressionless.
Gabriel.
Ricardo had seen the photograph before.
But his father had always called him Uncle Gabriel, the dead one.
Ricardo turned the page.
There was a newspaper clipping.
GALVÁN HEIR DIES IN PRIVATE AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT
Date:
March 14, 1988.
Ricardo’s eyes narrowed.
“There was never a crash.”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
Mateo looked at him.
“Your grandfather wanted Gabriel removed.”
Ricardo stopped breathing for a moment.
“Why?”
“Because Gabriel discovered where the family money was really coming from.”
Ricardo stared at him.
Mateo continued.
“Your grandfather had businesses that were legitimate. Construction. Logistics. Real estate. Imports.”
“And?”
“And he also had businesses that never appeared on any public ledger.”
Ricardo turned another page.
Names.
Companies.
Bank accounts.
Shell corporations.
Political figures.
Judges.
Private security firms.
And dozens of payments.
Ricardo’s eyes moved faster.
“This is impossible.”
“It happened.”
“My father spent his life trying to clean up the company.”
“Yes.”
“And Gabriel?”
“He wanted the entire family destroyed.”
Ricardo closed the folder.
“What does any of this have to do with Diego?”
Mateo’s face became grim.
“Everything.”
Before Ricardo could respond, his phone vibrated.
A message.
No number.
Only a photograph.
Ricardo opened it.
His heart stopped.
Diego.
Sitting on a wooden chair.
Alive.
His hands were free.
His face was pale.
Behind him was a large stone fireplace.
Ricardo zoomed in.
There was a painting above it.
A painting of the Galván family.
But something else caught his eye.
A small brass clock.
Ricardo recognized it.
The old estate.
He looked at Mateo.
“You said Gabriel has Diego.”
Mateo nodded.
“Then take me to him.”
Mateo shook his head.
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m done hearing that.”
“Gabriel doesn’t want you to rescue Diego.”
Ricardo stepped closer.
“Then what does he want?”
Mateo's eyes hardened.
“He wants you to choose.”
“Choose what?”
“Your son…”
Mateo paused.
“…or your family.”
Ricardo stared at him.
“That makes no sense.”
“It will.”
A voice came from the doorway.
“You finally came back, Ricardo.”
Everyone turned.
Valeria went pale.
The man standing there was older.
Tall.
Thin.
Gray-haired.
His left leg dragged slightly when he walked.
But his eyes were unmistakable.
Ricardo knew that face.
Not from memory.
From photographs.
From the portrait in his grandfather’s house.
From stories that had been told in whispers.
Gabriel Galván.
Ricardo’s uncle.
The dead man.
Gabriel looked at him.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Ricardo said:
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
Gabriel smiled.
“So were you.”
Ricardo's fists tightened.
“Where is my son?”
Gabriel didn't answer.
Instead, he looked at Valeria.
“You told him?”
Valeria nodded.
Gabriel's expression darkened.
“I told you not to.”
“I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
Valeria looked down.
Gabriel walked toward Ricardo.
“You look like your father.”
Ricardo stared at him.
“I don't know you.”
“No.”
Gabriel stopped a few feet away.
“But I knew your father.”
“You tried to destroy him.”
Gabriel smiled faintly.
“He tried to destroy me first.”
“You kidnapped my son.”
“I protected your son.”
Ricardo almost lunged at him.
“You call drugging a seven-year-old protection?”
Gabriel's expression changed.
“I never drugged Diego.”
Ricardo stopped.
Gabriel looked at Valeria.
“She did.”
Valeria whispered:
“I was trying to keep him calm.”
Gabriel's voice became colder.
“You were trying to keep him controllable.”
Valeria flinched.
Ricardo looked between them.
“Enough.”
He stepped forward.
“Where is Diego?”
Gabriel pulled a small key from his pocket.
Then he placed it on the table.
“Your son is in the old west wing.”
Ricardo stared at the key.
“Then why are we standing here?”
“Because if you walk through that door without understanding what’s inside, you will lose him.”
Ricardo picked up the key.
“What’s inside?”
Gabriel looked at Mateo.
Mateo said nothing.
Then Gabriel spoke.
“The original medical records.”
Ricardo froze.
“Of Diego?”
“Yes.”
“Why would they be here?”
Gabriel's eyes met his.
“Because your father ordered them hidden.”
Ricardo's fingers tightened around the key.
“Why?”
Gabriel answered quietly.
“Because Diego was never supposed to exist on paper.”
Ricardo stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Gabriel didn't answer.
He simply turned.
“Come.”
They walked through a narrow corridor.
The old estate was silent.
Too silent.
Ricardo followed Gabriel toward the west wing.
The air became colder.
At the end of the hallway stood a steel door.
Gabriel stopped.
“This room hasn't been opened in twenty-two years.”
Ricardo inserted the key.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Inside was a small medical archive.
Cabinets lined every wall.
Boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling.
Ricardo walked toward the nearest cabinet.
He opened it.
Birth certificates.
Hospital records.
Blood tests.
DNA reports.
Adoption documents.
He grabbed one folder.
DIEGO GALVÁN
His hands began to shake.
He opened it.
The first page was a birth certificate.
But the mother's name was correct.
Valeria.
The father's name was correct.
Ricardo.
Then he saw the second page.
Blood type.
AB negative.
Ricardo stared.
“That’s wrong.”
Gabriel stood behind him.
“Yes.”
“My blood type is O positive.”
“Correct.”
“And Valeria is A positive.”
Gabriel said nothing.
Ricardo turned toward him.
“So Diego couldn't have AB negative.”
“Not according to the records.”
Ricardo flipped through the pages.
The original hospital report showed one blood type.
A later report showed another.
Then another.
Different signatures.
Different doctors.
Different dates.
Someone had altered the records.
Multiple times.
Ricardo's breathing became heavier.
“Why?”
Gabriel looked at the folder.
“Because someone wanted the bloodline questioned.”
Ricardo stared at him.
“What bloodline?”
Gabriel's face became unreadable.
“The Galván bloodline.”
Then Ricardo noticed something.
A sealed envelope.
His name was written on it.
Not Ricardo Galván.
Just:
R.
He opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Ricardo looked at it.
Then his face went white.
The photograph showed Valeria.
Holding newborn Diego.
Beside her stood another man.
A man Ricardo had never seen before.
But beneath the photograph was a handwritten sentence.
THE CHILD IS YOURS.
Ricardo exhaled.
For one second, relief.
Then he read the next line.
BUT HE WAS BORN FOR ANOTHER PURPOSE.
Ricardo looked up.
“What purpose?”
Gabriel didn't answer.
A scream came from somewhere upstairs.
Ricardo's blood froze.
“Diego.”
He ran.
Gabriel shouted after him.
“Ricardo!”
But Ricardo kept running.
He reached the upper hallway.
The room was empty.
The window was open.
The bed was overturned.
And on the floor lay Diego's small blue sweater.
Ricardo picked it up.
There was blood on the sleeve.
His heart shattered.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
Ricardo answered.
A distorted voice spoke.
“You found the records.”
Ricardo said nothing.
“You found Gabriel.”
“Where is my son?”
A pause.
Then:
“You still think Gabriel took him.”
Ricardo froze.
“What?”
The voice whispered:
“Your uncle didn't take Diego.”
Ricardo stared at Gabriel.
Gabriel's face had gone pale.
The voice continued.
“He was the one trying to keep him alive.”
Then the call ended.
Ricardo slowly lowered the phone.
Gabriel looked at him.
For the first time, the old man's face showed genuine fear.
“Who was that?” Ricardo asked.
Gabriel whispered:
“The person your father spent thirty-eight years trying to hide.”
And somewhere beneath the estate—
a child began crying.
Ricardo turned toward the sound.
Gabriel grabbed his arm.
“Don't go down there.”
Ricardo looked at him.
“Why?”
May you like
Gabriel's answer was barely audible.
“Because that's where they buried the first truth.”
