Mateo Sandoval slapped his hands together, grinning at the barefoot boy trembling in front of the titanium vault. “What do you say, street rat?”
The five businessmen erupted in laughter.
“This is gold,” boomed Rodrigo Fuentes, 49, wiping tears from his eyes. “You really think he knows what you’re offering?”
“He probably thinks a million is like a hundred bucks,” Gabriel Ortiz, 51, sneered.
In the corner, Elena Vargas gripped her mop handle until her knuckles went white. She was the cleaning lady. And she’d committed the unforgivable sin of bringing her 11-year-old son to work because she couldn’t afford childcare.
“Mr. Sandoval, please,” she whispered. “We’ll leave now. My son won’t touch—”
“Quiet.”
The word cracked like a whip.
Elena flinched. Tears gathered in her eyes as she backed against the wall.
Her son stared at her with a look no child should wear: pain, helplessness, and something else. Something burning.
“Eight years you’ve scrubbed my toilets,” Mateo said, voice dripping contempt. “Not once did I ask your opinion. Don’t start now.”
Silence dropped heavy over the 42nd-floor office.