Sebastián Moreno didn’t belong in my world. That was the first thought that came to mind when I saw his gleaming black Mercedes AMG pull up in front of my garage in Madrid’s Carpanchel neighborhood. My world smelled of burnt oil, freshly laundered diapers, and reheated coffee. I was certain his leather was Italian, his offices air-conditioned on the Paseo de la Castellana, and that expensive cologne lingered long after its owner had left.
I was working under an old Seat Leon and trying to open a rusted oil pan that wouldn’t budge. My eight-month-old son, Mateo, was sitting in his little paddock in the safest corner of the garage, chatting and tapping on the bars with a plastic key. It was our symphony for the day.
“Good morning,” a deep, masculine voice called from the doorway. It wasn’t the voice of my usual customers, nor that of neighbors worried about the cost of vehicle inspections, nor that of hurried taxi drivers. It was a voice whose orders were always carried out immediately.
“Hello.” I got out of the car on the stretcher and wiped my hands with a worn rag, then stopped to adjust my blue jumpsuit.
“Just a moment,” I said.
I brushed a strand of hair away from my face. I knew I had an oil stain on my face; it never went away.
Never.
The man in front of me was Sebastián Moreno. I recognized him from the business magazines I sometimes leafed through at the newsstand when I dreamed of a different life. He’s the richest man in the Spanish hotel industry. A smart suit, shoes more expensive than my truck, and a weariness that seemed out of place given his status.
“I’m looking for Valeria Torres,” he said, looking around suspiciously, his gaze oscillating between the equipment hanging on the wall and the concrete floor before settling on Mateo.
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