Don Arnulfo, his eyes filled with tears, walked clumsily toward his son. He no longer saw the simple guayabera. Now he saw the aura of greatness that surrounded Leo.
“Leo…” the old man whispered, his voice breaking with regret. “Son… is it true? You’re an Admiral?”
Leo looked at his father. There was no hatred in his eyes. Nor was there triumph. Only a deep and sorrowful compassion.
“Yes, Dad,” Leo answered softly. “I don’t own any factories. I don’t own any yachts. And my bank account is probably smaller than the bill for this party. But I do have something you could never buy with all your money.”
“What?” Arnulfo asked, crying.
—The honor of my own name. And the loyalty of good men.
Leo took a step back, creating a distance that was no longer physical, but spiritual.
“I’m glad to have seen Rico. Tell him I wish him all the best. But I don’t think I belong here.”
“No, Leo, wait!” Don Arnulfo pleaded, trying to grab his arm. “Sit at the head table! Please! Take my place!”
Leo shook his head gently.
—No, Dad. I was fine where you sat me. There’s more honesty among the workers than at that head table.
He turned to the Secretary of Defense.
—Let’s go, General.
—Yes, sir! —Valdez replied.