4.
LEONARDO VILLAR
Catarina walks into my office at eight in the morning without being invited.
That alone is enough to make me suspicious.
My aunt has never entered a room without knowing precisely what she intends to take from it.
“You’re avoiding my calls.”
“I’m working.”
“The board meets in forty minutes.”
“I know.”
She closes the door.
“Marcelo requested old foundation files.”
I keep my eyes on the computer.
“I ordered an audit.”
“We already have auditors.”
“Now we have more.”
The silence changes.
“Why?”
“I found irregularities.”
“What period?”
I look at her.
Catarina is immaculate. Pale hair pinned neatly back. Understated pearls. An expression calculated to read as concern and nothing more.
“The months before Henrique died.”
Her face doesn’t move.
That is what gets my attention.
“Five years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Leonardo, your father has been dead four months. Shareholders are circling the company. This is not the moment to dig up old family wounds.”
“Money was diverted.”
“Then prosecute whoever took it.”
“It paid for a clinic in Switzerland.”
She blinks.
Once.
“What kind of clinic?”
“Neurology.”
Another fraction of a pause.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Henrique was a patient.”
Her fingers tighten around her handbag.
Barely.
But I see it.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“He would have told us.”
“Who is us?”
“The family.”
“Apparently not.”
She comes closer.
“Henrique was unstable before the accident.”
“Define unstable.”
“He was drinking.”
“That doesn’t explain ataxia, tremors, or loss of coordination.”
This time, the color leaves her face.
Not much.
Enough.
“Where did you hear that?”
“So you recognize the symptoms.”
“Everyone knew something was wrong.”
“I didn’t.”
The truth comes out harder than I mean it to.
For days, I’ve been replaying every memory I have of my brother.
Falls.
Dropped glasses.
Slurred words.
Fights.
I called it alcohol.
Irresponsibility.
Self-destruction.
Henrique was sick a few feet from me, and he chose Olívia instead.
“Why are you interrogating me?” Catarina asks.
“Because you brought me the documents about Olívia.”
“I received them.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You remember the dress the French ambassador’s wife wore to dinner eleven years ago.”
Her eyes harden.
“Are you accusing me?”
“I’m asking a question.”
“That woman destroyed you.”
Anger hits with such force it surprises me.
“Do not talk about her.”
“For five years, you called her an opportunist.”
“For five years, I may have been wrong.”
Catarina freezes.
There.
The first honest reaction.
“What did you find?”
“Why does that worry you?”
“Because you’re my nephew.”
“That is not an answer.”
She opens her mouth.
My phone rings.
Marcelo.
I answer.
“Talk.”
“We found Olívia.”
Catarina hears the name.
I know she does.
I turn my chair slightly away from her.
“Where?”
“Santa Serena. Minas Gerais.”
“What is she doing there?”
“She’s still a physical therapist. Runs a pediatric rehabilitation clinic.”
My hand stills.
A clinic.
She built something.
I don’t know why the thought lands the way it does.
“How long?”
“Almost five years.”
“Family?”
“I’m still checking.”
The word unsettles me.
Not jealousy.
It can’t be.
Maybe the fear of discovering a complete life that kept moving after mine stopped.
“Do not contact her.”
“All right.”
I hang up.
Catarina is watching me.
“You’re going to see her.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“For what?”
“To hear the truth I wouldn’t let her tell me.”
“Leonardo, some things are better left buried.”
I stand.
“Interesting word choice when we’re talking about Henrique.”
She takes a tiny step back.
Almost nothing.
Enough.
“The board meeting has started,” she says.
“Go.”
“You’re not coming?”
“No.”
“The board—”
“Will survive forty minutes without me.”
“You’re letting a woman you haven’t seen in five years interfere with the group again.”
The sentence hits me.
Not because it’s true.
Because I’ve heard some version of it before.
Family against Olívia.
The Villar name against Olívia.
Documents against Olívia.
Every road seems to lead back to the same choice.
“Get out, Catarina.”
She leaves.
A few minutes later, Marcelo comes in and places another folder on my desk.
“The lab responded.”
I don’t need to ask.
“The paternity test.”
“Yes.”
I open the file.
Sample logs.
Codes.
Time stamps.
One central problem.
The sample attributed to me has no valid chain of custody.
“Could it have been mine?”
“We can’t confirm that.”
“Could it have been someone else’s?”
“Yes.”
I close my eyes.
“And Olívia’s?”
“Her sample came from archived prenatal bloodwork. There was no specific consent for a paternity analysis.”
My jaw locks.
“Did I authorize it?”
“Your father signed the institutional request.”
My father.
“And who ordered the comparison?”
“The request carries the digital signature of a director who insists he never submitted it.”
Fraud.
There it is.
Not a possibility.
Not bad recordkeeping.
Fraud.
“Who accessed the system?”
“Internal credentials. We’re tracing them.”
“Catarina?”
“No proof yet.”
I go to the window.
“She’s in Santa Serena.”
“Olívia?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to arrange contact?”
“No.”
If I send a lawyer, I’ll be doing exactly what I have always done.
Systems.
Power.
Distance.
“I’m going myself.”
Marcelo looks at me.
“Now?”
“Today.”
“You have a board meeting.”
“Move it.”
“Catarina will use that.”
“She can try.”
I pick up my jacket.
“Leonardo.”
I stop.
“What if Olívia refuses to talk to you?”
It should be an obvious question.
It isn’t.
I have spent my life walking into rooms that opened the moment my name was announced.
Olívia has every reason to keep her door closed.
“Then I’ll hear her say no.”
“And accept it?”
I look at him.
“I’m still learning that part.”