They ran toward her with outstretched arms, stumbling, desperate, as if they were fleeing a fire. But what filled Clara with absolute terror was not seeing them cry, but seeing them running barefoot on the scorching asphalt and their clothes stained red.

Behind them, the image of power turned to impotence: Don Alejandro, the owner of that entire empire, ran after his children, his face contorted with despair. He was no longer the impeccably dressed magnate in an Italian suit; he was a terrified father, his tie flying over his shoulder.

“Lucas, Mateo, stop!” Alexander roared, his voice breaking. “For God’s sake, stop!”

But the twins weren’t listening. For them, the only danger wasn’t a speeding car or their father’s fury. The only mortal danger was losing the only woman who had ever held them when their mother died.

Clara dropped the suitcase. She didn’t care about the sharp pain in her knees as she fell onto the pavement. Her arms opened instinctively, like the wings of a bird trying to protect its young. The children crashed into her with the force of a small hurricane, burying their faces in her uniform, clinging to her neck like shipwrecked sailors.

“Don’t go! Don’t leave us!” Mateo shouted, his voice breaking into an unintelligible plea.

Clara wrapped them tightly, but then she felt something wet and sticky. When she looked at her yellow gloves, terror gripped her: they were stained crimson red.

“Blood!” Clara gasped. “They’re bleeding! Good Lord, what happened to them?”

Lucas had a deep cut on his forearm. Mateo’s hands were covered in small cuts and his knees were raw and skinned.