He read the serial, reversed it, did the math out loud. The logic was so precise, so specific, it couldn’t be a bluff.
Mateo dropped into his chair like the air had gone out of him.
For years he’d bragged about his bulletproof safe. An 11-year-old had just shown it was an expensive toy with a human flaw.
“Wait, there’s more,” Santiago said, walking closer.
“More?” Mateo asked hollowly.
“Your security question is ‘What was your first car?’ And your answer is ‘Corvette 987,’ right?”
Mateo could only nod.
“My dad told me rich people always choose security questions about possessions,” Santiago said quietly. “Never about people—their mother’s name, their first love, where they were born—because deep down, they value things more than the people in their lives.”
The words struck whatever was left of their self-respect.
The five businessmen stared at the floor, unable to meet the child’s gaze.
“So, Mr. Sandoval,” Santiago said at last, “here’s my real offer. I don’t want your hundred million dollars. I want you to do three things.”
“What things?” Mateo asked. The fight was gone.