Mateo Sandoval, 53, had built $900 million by crushing anyone he deemed beneath him. His office was a shrine to ego: wall-to-wall glass, imported furniture, and that Swiss-made safe that cost more than ten years of Elena’s wages.
But his favorite luxury wasn’t things. It was this—reminding poor people where they belonged.
“Come here, boy.”
The child glanced at his mother. Through tears, she nodded.
He obeyed. His bare feet left prints on marble that cost more per square foot than his family owned in total.
Mateo crouched down, eye level.
“Can you read?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Count to one hundred?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Mateo stood, grin widening. “So you understand what one hundred million dollars means?”
The boy nodded slowly.
“Tell me in your own words,” Mateo pressed. “What is one hundred million dollars to you?”
The boy swallowed. “It’s more money than we’d see in our whole lives.”
“Exactly!” Mateo clapped. “More than you, your mother, your children—and their children—will ever see. It’s what separates people like me from people like you.”
“That’s brutal, even for you,” Fernando Silva, 57, muttered—but he was grinning.