As Tomás watched from the sidewalk, his face contorted with grief, I knew that what was coming wasn’t the end of an era…
It was the true beginning.
The men who had come to the funeral escorted me to the family home in the Sarrià neighborhood, a spacious residence that Tomás had always envied. I never dared bring him there when my father was alive; Richard preferred to keep his distance from him from the first time he met him.
The group’s leader, Gabriel Knox, handed me a black folder.
“Your father instructed us to give this to you as soon as he passed away,” he explained.
My heart raced. I carefully opened the folder. Inside were bank documents, deeds to properties in Barcelona, Málaga, and London, and a letter written in my father’s unmistakable handwriting.
