Mateo’s gaze flickers, recognition crawling in. “Salgado,” he says slowly. “That name… there was a report. Six months ago.”
Your stomach tightens. “A report of what?”
The duke’s eyes narrow. “Tell me what happened to your husband.”
The question is a blade too, but it’s held out carefully. You’ve learned to recognize the difference between a weapon used to threaten and one used to cut through lies.
You take a breath that tastes like smoke and damp wood. “They buried him. Then his family stole everything he left us.”
Mateo’s jaw sets. “The Ibarra family.”
Your head snaps to him. “You know them.”
The duke shifts his broken leg slightly, and pain flashes over his face, quick and controlled. “I know a lot of families,” he says. “Some of them are honest.”
You hear the unspoken ending: Most of them aren’t.
Cecilia steps forward despite your silent warning. “My uncle said we’re nothing,” she blurts, voice trembling but brave enough to stand. “He said my dad’s land belongs to him.”
Mateo looks uncomfortable, as if a child’s voice can bruise him more than any fist. The duke’s gaze stays on Cecilia, and something in his expression changes, like a door opening in a room you didn’t know existed.
“What is your father’s name?” he asks her.
“Tomás Ibarra,” Cecilia says, then corrects herself quickly, because you raised her to protect the truth like a candle in wind. “Tomás Ibarra Salgado.”
The duke goes still. It’s subtle, but you catch it, because you’ve spent months watching for tiny shifts in other people’s moods, the way you watch the sky for the first sign of storm.
“Tomás,” he repeats.
Mateo notices too. “My lord?”
The duke’s eyes slide to you. “Your husband… was he the one who used to deliver ledgers to the parish office, late at night?”
Your breath catches. “He did work with papers. He said it was safer to move them when people were asleep.”
The duke’s face turns unreadable. “Then the Ibarra theft isn’t small. It’s connected.”
Connected. The word makes the world feel more dangerous. Small injustices are bad enough, but connected injustices are webs, and webs are designed for trapping.
Mateo clears his throat. “My lord, we should move you. This place is not secure.”
“And her?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Mateo hesitates.
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