"I saw her. We all did."
That was what Elías, the journalist, said again.
His voice came through Arturo's speaker, distorted with the buzz of a weak connection and something worse: fear. Not fear of Arturo. Not yet. But fear of what he was being asked to explain.
"I had twenty-seven shots of her, maybe more. That dress? The silver one with the side slit? She looked like... like old Hollywood. But now?"
"Now what?" Arturo snapped.
"The camera says I never took them."
Arturo said nothing.
He looked down at his glass. Still full. Still untouched.
"The SD card shows empty data blocks. Nothing corrupted. Just... gone. Like they were never there to begin with. Like someone wiped them clean but left the timestamp behind. That's not normal. That's not even possible."
Arturo ended the call without saying goodbye.
He sat in his chair for a long time.
Not angry. Not plotting.
Just... still.
Staring at the opposite wall, where a painting hung crooked a portrait of himself from twenty years ago. Younger, thinner, more convinced of his own importance. He used to smile at it.
Now it looked stupid. Off-balance. Small.
He rose, pacing the room with the folder in his hands the same folder he'd shown the Italians.
Inside it was the second map: the Chihuahua crossing. Not vital, but current. An artery. A route still used by low-level couriers under Mateo's watch. Arturo had red-lined it, annotated its key points in his own handwriting.
He had a third map he hadn't sent yet.
The real one. The Veracruz shell routes disguised beneath a shrimp import label.
He stared at that map now, fingers brushing over it like it might bite him.
"She's not a player," he muttered. "She's a ghost."
And then.
A knock.
Soft. Three taps.
His guard opened the door, cautious.
"Señor. There's... someone here to see you."
"Who?"
"He wouldn't say. He handed me this."
The guard passed Arturo a small envelope.
No stamp. No writing.
Arturo opened it.
Inside: a printed photo.
Grainy. Low-res. Surveillance quality.
A blurred silhouette of a woman walking through the Cruz courtyard. The timestamp matched last night's gala. Her back turned. Her shoulders unmistakable. The silver dress.
It was the only known image left of Sofía from that night.
He stared at it.
Then noticed the message typed at the bottom in bold, thin font:
"How do you erase a woman from a room she never left?"
Arturo's stomach turned.
He dismissed the guard with a flick of his fingers and sat heavily at the desk.
He scanned the photo again.
Noticed something else: the flower.
Tucked into the back of Sofía's dress a red camellia, pinned like a war medal.
She hadn't reacted to it.
Hadn't touched it.
Hadn't even looked at it when she sat.
He remembered that now.
She never once acknowledged the flower.
She never needed to.
His hands shook as he placed the photo into the folder with the maps.
Then picked up his phone.
He dialed the Italians again.
A different voice answered this time. Male. Mid-level. Alert.
"Camberos."
"I'm sending the next map."
"Why so generous all of a sudden?"
"I want your people closer to the Cruz operation. Inside, if possible."
"Why?"
Arturo didn't answer at first.
Then he said:
"Because something's coming. And I want to know if it walks like a woman or moves like a ghost."
The voice on the other end chuckled.
"You sound afraid."
"I'm not afraid," Arturo said.
But he was lying.
He hung up.
And for a long while, he just sat there listening to the silence press against the windows of his house.
In the distance, he thought he heard a dog barking.
For half a second, he imagined it was Dante.
Then he remembered.
Dante never barked unless something was already inside the walls.
Back in the study, he laid the photo of Sofía out flat.
Then the maps.
Then the empty camellia box he hadn't thrown away yet.
He stared at all three, lined up on the desk.
And finally said aloud:
"If you really want a war, niña... then you should've come to me for a crown, not a grave."
But his voice didn't carry weight anymore.
It echoed back at him like a threat made to the wrong person.