Isabela thinks, jaw working. “Start with this,” she says, pointing at Letícia. “She’s been scared for sixteen years. She doesn’t trust you. And I don’t trust anyone who treats my mother like an accessory.”
Letícia flinches, but there’s pride in her eyes too. You turn toward Letícia. “You don’t have to trust me today,” you tell her. “You don’t even have to forgive me for not finding you. But you can let me help you now.”
Letícia wipes her cheeks and looks at you like she’s deciding whether your sincerity can survive reality. “Help how?” she asks.
You choose your words carefully, because this is where men like you usually get it wrong. “Not by moving you into a mansion,” you say. “Not by forcing a new life on you. By giving you options and protection. A lawyer to review everything, a security plan that doesn’t feel like a prison, medical support if you need it, therapy if you want it. And time. As much time as you need.”
Letícia’s shoulders sag, and you see how tired she is of being brave. “And Marcos?” she asks in a whisper. “If he left echoes…”
You nod. “I’ll find them,” you promise, voice calm in a way that scares even you. “Not with violence. With evidence. With the law. With light.”
In the weeks that follow, you learn a new kind of work. It’s not hostile takeovers or boardrooms or negotiating silence. It’s learning what kind of tea Isabela likes when she’s upset, and learning that she pretends she isn’t upset by getting louder. It’s learning that Letícia flinches at certain car models, and you quietly swap vehicles without making a show of it. It’s learning to sit in a small kitchen and eat simple bread without checking your phone, because you’re trying to prove your presence is real.
You rent a modest house in Paraty, close enough that you can be there without invading. Isabela calls it your “practice house,” and when she says it, there’s a hint of humor, which feels like a rose growing through concrete. Letícia keeps selling bread at first, stubborn and proud, refusing your money like it’s a trap. You don’t argue; you buy bread the way you did the first day, but now you buy it because it’s hers, not because it’s charity.
One afternoon, Isabela drags you to the market and makes you carry a basket like a punishment. You stumble on the wet stones, and she laughs so hard she nearly drops a bag of fruit. “Careful, billionaire,” she teases. “These streets don’t care who you are.”
You grin despite yourself. “Good,” you say. “Neither do you.”
She freezes at that, then rolls her eyes dramatically like she’s annoyed by her own emotions. “Don’t get cheesy,” she warns, but her voice is softer.
The real test comes a month later.
A man shows up at Letícia’s door while you’re out, claiming to be from a legal office. He carries documents that look official and asks questions that are too specific, too hungry. Isabela senses something wrong immediately, because she has been surviving lies her whole life. She shuts the door in his face, locks it, and calls you with shaking hands.
You arrive ten minutes later, and by then your security team has already identified him. He isn’t a lawyer. He’s a private investigator with ties to an old network Marcos once used. The realization is a cold hand around your throat: the past is still alive enough to knock.
You don’t panic in front of them. You take a slow breath and kneel in front of Isabela, meeting her eyes. “You did the right thing,” you tell her. “You were smart. You were brave.”
Isabela’s lips tremble. “He found us,” she whispers. “He found us again.”
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