soft, dismissive laugh.

“Your mother is elderly.

She could have withdrawn the cash and forgotten.

Or maybe Father Benito is the one who should explain a few things.”

Elvira flinched as if slapped.

That did it.

Tomás had tolerated Verónica’s sharpness for years by reducing it to style.

She was direct.

She had standards.

She came from a different world.

That was what he told himself each time she corrected a waiter with icy politeness, each time she spoke about people as if kindness were a luxury, each time his mother left a family gathering quieter than she had arrived.

But hearing her drag an old priest into the lie while his mother stood there in a dress with worn seams and cracked heels showing through her shoes burned away his usual excuses.

“Open it now,” he said.

She did not move.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out his own phone, and signed into the shared account dashboard he rarely checked beyond the broad monthly totals.

Verónica managed their disbursements, but the accounts were visible to both of them.

He simply had not bothered to look closely.

That neglect now felt like complicity.

He searched the transaction history for the amount.

There they were.

Twelve outgoing transfers.

Each one for $2,500.

Every month, on nearly the same date.

His first breath of relief arrived too soon.

The transfers existed.

Maybe there had been a banking error.

Maybe the destination account had been wrong by a digit.

Maybe this could still be fixed without shattering everything.

He tapped into the transfer details.

The recipient name made his stomach turn.

V.

Salazar Holdings.

Not Elvira Gálvez.

Not his mother’s account.

He looked up slowly.

“What is V.

Salazar Holdings?”

For the first time, Verónica’s expression broke.

Only for a second.

But a second was enough.

“A temporary account,” she said.

“For management.”

“Management of what?”

She folded her arms.

“Don’t make this theatrical.”

His mother looked from one face to the other, trying to keep up, her mouth slightly open.

Tomás suddenly hated that she had to stand there and watch her own worth debated.

“What did you do?” he asked.

Verónica’s eyes flashed.

“What I always do.

I managed money better than everyone else in this family.”

He stared at her.

She went on, perhaps because she saw the silence as weakness and filled it the way she always did—with confidence.

“Your mother does not need $2,500 a month in that house.

Be serious.

It would have been irresponsible to hand over that amount with no structure.”

Elvira’s face changed then.

Not into rage.

Into a tired kind of humiliation too old for surprise.

“So you kept it,” she said quietly.

Verónica turned to her.

“I redirected it.”

The word landed in the room like poison wrapped in silk.

Tomás felt his pulse hammer in his neck.

“To where?”

Verónica lifted her chin.

“Into a reserve account.

It remained within the family sphere.”

“Answer the question.”

She glanced at the boys.

“Take them to the living room.”

“No.”

His older son looked frightened now.

“Dad?”

Tomás softened his tone without taking his eyes off Verónica.

“Go sit with Grandma’s coloring pencils on the little table.

Stay there.”

The boys obeyed.

When they were out of the kitchen, the room somehow