He called his lawyer that night, a careful and loyal man named Cristóbal, and his voice was not the voice of a man who was used to being obeyed.

It was the voice of a man begging.

“There’s a boy,” he said.

“My grandson.

Gael’s son.

He’s living with his aunt somewhere in Gustavo A.

Madero — the sister of the mother, Araceli.

I need to know everything.