It was my personal phone, sitting on the glass coffee table in the living room.

The screen was bright, illuminating the dark corner of the room.

An incoming call from an unknown number.

I walked over and picked it up.

I pressed the receiver to my ear.

“Inés,” Alvaro’s voice said, cold and perfectly clear. “I have the box.”

“Inés,” Alvaro’s voice said, cold and perfectly clear. “I have the box.”

I did not breathe.

The plastic of the receiver felt freezing against my cheek.

“What box, Alvaro?” I asked.

My voice did not shake, but my fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles turned white.

“The black one,” he said. “The one you had Matthew hide in the wall of the guest house.”

Across the table, Lucía watched me.

She reached out and touched my wrist, her fingers cold and trembling.

I shook her hand off and stood up, walking toward the window.

Outside, the Madrid streetlights flickered through the thin rain.

“You are bluffing,” I said.

“I don’t bluff, Inés,” Alvaro replied. “Not about my family. And certainly not about my money.”