Alejandro had remained seated, paralyzed with surprise, yes, but without intervening, without defending the “old doorman” who was being vilely humiliated.
His face showed a mixture of shame and bewilderment, but not the indignation Don Ricardo expected from a righteous man.
When Don Ricardo passed by him, their eyes met for an instant. Alejandro’s eyes, now filled with an uncomfortable plea, seemed to say, “Please, Father, don’t do this.” But it was too late. The damage had already been done.
Upon leaving the restaurant, Don Ricardo removed his soaked uniform in the restroom, wiped the sticky residue from his face, and changed into the elegant clothes he wore beneath his disguise.
The wig and glasses were thrown away. His heart was broken, but his mind—the mind of the ruthless businessman —was already plotting his next move. The test was over, and the verdict was devastating.
The next day, the Alarcón mansion, a monument to luxury and good taste, was thick with an almost unbearable tension.
Don Ricardo had returned home in the early hours of the morning, without saying a word to anyone. In the morning, he sent a message to Alejandro: “I need to talk to you. In my office. Now.” The tone left no room for doubt.
Alejandro arrived, his face pale and with dark circles under his eyes. He knew something terrible had happened, though he couldn’t imagine the magnitude. “Father, what’s wrong? Are you alright? Why the urgent call?” he asked, trying to sound normal.
Don Ricardo stared at him from behind his imposing mahogany desk. His gaze was cold and hard, unlike anything his son had ever seen. “Last night, I was at ‘El Dorado,’ Alejandro.”
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