Weapons on the ground.
Chaos.
Farid tried to run towards Don Hassan.
Zafir intercepted it like a wall.
It wasn't a movie fight.
Was worse.
Real.
Dry.
Brutal.
Farid pulled out a knife.
Zafir deflected it.
A blow.
Other.
The blade fell to the metal floor.
Farid staggered back, breathing like a cornered animal.
—This was all mine! —spat— I built the bridge between you! Without me they were nothing!
—There you are wrong —Amira said, advancing slowly as the agents surrounded him—. You were just the parasite that thought it was a column.
Farid looked at her with pure hatred.
—Your father sold you.
Amira didn't blink.
—No.
His voice came out firm.
Beautiful and sharp.
—My father left the war to me... because he knew that I could win it.
Farid was reduced to the ground seconds later.
Handcuffed.
Acabado.
Y por primera vez en años, el monstruo real tenía rostro.
No era Zafir.
Nunca lo fue.
IX
Don Hassan vivió lo suficiente para ver caer a Farid Nassar.
Y para decirle la verdad a su hija.
Fue tres días después, en la habitación privada del hospital, con la ciudad extendida detrás de los ventanales como una constelación de concreto.
Amira estaba sentada junto a la cama.
Zafir, de pie al fondo, en silencio.
Don Hassan respiraba con dificultad.
Pero sus ojos, al mirar a su hija, estaban limpios.
—Te debo una disculpa —murmuró.
Amira tragó saliva.
—Varias.
Él soltó una sombra de sonrisa.
—Sí… varias.
