29.
DANTE FERRAZ
My father collected works of art the way other men collected territory.
Not because he loved art.
Because he enjoyed possessing things other men wanted.
During my childhood, our house was filled with paintings, sculptures, and antiques no one was allowed to touch.
My mother said every piece carried history.
My father said it carried value.
I learned to think like him.
During the flight back, Aurora held my hand.
She did not squeeze from fear.
She simply held it.
That made speaking more difficult.
“My father began with hotels,” I explained through the headset. “Then he purchased historical properties. Many came with collections.”
“And he sold pieces?”
“Some.”
“With documentation?”
“I believed so.”
“But there was an investigation.”
“When I was twenty-eight. A collection purchased from a Portuguese antiquarian contained two pieces that may have been illegally removed from churches.”
“What happened?”
“The antiquarian disappeared. My father claimed he had been deceived. The pieces were returned.”
“Did you believe him?”
I took time to answer.
“I wanted to.”
Aurora looked through the window.
“That is different from believing.”
“Yes.”
“Did Otávio know your father?”
“Probably. The Valen?a Museum negotiated loans with the Ferraz Collection.”
“My uncle handled those too.”
“Then they may have worked together.”
The words felt toxic.
My father.
Otávio.
The scheme.
Perhaps the crimes had not begun four years earlier.
Perhaps they predated our relationship.
“When did you take control of the group?” Aurora asked.
“After his death.”
“Did you review everything?”
“Finances, contracts, debt.”
“The collections?”
“Not in depth.”
“Why?”
“I trusted those responsible.”
“People like álvaro.”
“Yes.”
Aurora withdrew her hand.
The absence of her touch hurt.
“You built an empire on things you never verified.”
“Yes.”
“And demanded impossible innocence from me in the face of evidence you had only superficially examined.”
“Yes.”
Every answer needed to be given without defense.
“The notebook may contain names from your company.”
“Probably.”
“Your father may have been involved.”
“Yes.”
“And if that becomes public, the Ferraz Group…”
“Survives or it doesn’t.”
She stared at me.
“Don’t say that as though it is simple.”
“It isn’t.”
“Thousands of people work for you.”
“I know.”
“Hotels, families, salaries.”
“I know.”
“You cannot destroy everything out of guilt.”
“I’m not doing it because of guilt.”
“Then why?”
“Because concealing it would repeat what I did to you. I would choose the convenient version over the truth.”
Aurora remained silent.
The helicopter landed in Santa Brígida shortly after two.
Miguel called before we left the landing area.
“I have footage.”
“Did you see who was inside the warehouse?” I asked.
“álvaro.”
Aurora closed her eyes.
“He entered last night,” Miguel continued. “He went directly to the sculpture and left with something beneath his coat.”
“Where is he now?”
“Missing.”
“Augusto?”
“Claims he knew nothing.”
“A lie.”
“Probably.”
“Send everything to the police.”
“I already did.”
“And the federal investigator.”
“That too.”
“I’m returning to Petrópolis.”
Aurora caught my arm.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“I need to deal with this.”
“The children.”
The word reorganized everything.
“First the children,” she said. “Then you decide.”
I nodded.
We went to the studio.
The children were still at school.
Mrs. Lurdes waited for us.
“Did you find it?”
“No,” Aurora answered.
“Trouble?”
“Yes.”
She did not explain.
Not from lack of trust.
Exhaustion.
“I’ll collect them,” I offered.
“We’ll go together.”
During the drive, Aurora remained silent.
“Are you afraid of me?” I asked.
She turned her face.
“What?”
“If my father was involved.”
“You are not your father.”
“My surname, my company, my resources.”
“You are not him.”
The answer came firmly.
My chest tightened.
“But you can choose to become like him,” she added.
Fair.
“I will not.”
“We’ll see.”
At school, the children ran toward us.
Elisa wore a paper crown.
Tomás had paint in his hair.
Cecília gave me the stone.
“I kept it.”
“Thank you.”
I put it in my pocket.
“You came back get it.”
“I did.”
She smiled.
Inside the car, they told us about the entire day at once.
Aurora listened.
Answered.
Daily life invaded the horror.
When we arrived, Miguel was waiting.
The children went to Mrs. Lurdes’s house under protest.
“We don’t want secret,” Elisa complained.
“It is an adult conversation,” Aurora said.
“I’m adult.”
“You’re three.”
“Almost four.”
“Still three.”
We entered the studio.
Miguel played the video.
álvaro appeared inside the warehouse at eleven forty at night.
He used a key.
Knew exactly where to go.
Removed the sculpture.
Forced the base.
Placed the notebook beneath his coat.
“He worked for my father,” I said.
“Since when?” Aurora asked.
“Twenty-seven years.”
“Before you took over.”
“Yes.”
Miguel opened another file.
“I found payments between a company owned by álvaro and an offshore connected to Otávio.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Millions over fifteen years.”
Aurora sat.
“Fifteen.”
“The scheme existed while your parents were alive,” Miguel said.
She lost all color.
“Did they know?”
“We cannot determine that yet.”
“My father…”
Her voice failed.
I approached.
Stopped before touching her.
“May I?”
Aurora held out her hand.
I took it.
“My father trusted Otávio,” she said. “He left the museum to both of us.”
“That does not mean he knew.”
“And if he did?”
“We’ll find out.”
“Do not do to me what you did before.”
“What?”
“Do not say that knowing someone proves innocence.”
The truth hurt.
“You’re right.”
Miguel watched us.
“There is more,” he said.
He handed over a document.
A list of codes.
Dates.
Amounts.
At the top, initials.
A.F.
Ant?nio Ferraz.
My father.
“It could be another person,” Aurora said.
I looked at her.
The irony was cruel.
Now she was offering doubt in the face of evidence accusing me.
“It could,” I answered. “But I will not assume anything.”
“We need the notebook.”
“álvaro has it.”
“Otávio may have it now.”
Miguel nodded.
“And he will probably contact us again.”
Aurora’s telephone rang.
Unknown number.
We all looked at it.
“Don’t answer,” Miguel said.
Aurora picked it up.
“This time we record.”
She answered on speakerphone.
“Darling.”
My hand closed.
Otávio.
“Where is álvaro?” Aurora asked.
“Safe.”
“With the notebook?”
“Perhaps.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“Then talk.”
“Not by telephone.”
“I will not meet you.”
“You will if you want to know who destroyed your museum.”
“You.”
He laughed.
“I kept the museum alive for years.”
Aurora became pale.
“By stealing?”
“By maintaining it.”
“Liar.”
“Your father left debt behind. Ant?nio Ferraz offered a solution.”
My body stiffened.
“What solution?” Aurora asked.
“Pieces disappeared. Copies took their place. Everyone benefited.”
“Did my parents know?”
Silence.
Cruel.
Calculated.
“Ask me in person.”
“They’re dead.”
“Exactly.”
The call ended.
Aurora let the telephone fall onto the table.
“He is lying.”
I did not answer.
Neither did Miguel.
“He is trying to destabilize me,” she insisted.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then tell me my parents did not know.”
“I can’t.”
Pain appeared in her eyes.
“But you can say your father may not be A.F.”
“I did not say that.”
“You thought it.”
“I considered every possibility.”
“Like at the altar.”
The sentence struck me.
“No.”
“It feels the same.”
“At the altar, I chose the worst possibility about you without listening. Now I am saying we investigate everyone.”
“Including my parents.”
“Including mine.”
Aurora withdrew her hand.
“Leave.”
“No.”
“Dante.”
“I will not leave you alone like this.”
“Do not use protection to ignore my request.”
I stopped.
She was right.
“All right.”
Miguel stood.
“I’ll stay.”
Aurora looked at him.
“I don’t want anyone.”
“The children are next door,” I said. “Security is outside.”
“Go.”
I nodded.
I left.
Every step felt wrong.
But respect hurt too.
At the rented house, I found the dinosaur beneath the sofa.
I picked it up.
Sat on the floor.
My father may have participated in a criminal scheme.
Aurora’s parents might have known.
Otávio used the dead to destroy the living.
And I could do nothing without repeating control.
At eight, I received a message.
The children asked for the green dinosaur. Is it at your house?
I looked at the toy in my hand.
It is. I can bring it.
There was a pause.
They are going to sleep. Tomorrow.
All right.
Five more minutes passed.
Dante.
Yes.
I do not believe my parents knew.
I thought before answering.
Then we begin by believing that and searching for facts.
The reply came:
You believe me?
My chest tightened.
Yes.
Even without proof?
Yes.
It took time.
Thank you.
I closed my eyes.
It was not redemption.
But it was the first time Aurora asked whether I believed her.
And I answered the way I should have answered at the altar.
Yes.