Zaida lays the bouquet of wildflowers she picked shortly before on her mother's grave. Her green eyes fix on the inscriptions carved in the marble:
"to our benefactress and to all those who loved her"
Dulce Callarà (1972-2026).
As she was paying her respects, she perceived footsteps nearby. She turned around.
"Hello Zaida. You have her eyes, and you give off the same pride."
The young woman ran a hand through her brown hair, cut in a long bob, and examined the man addressing her. He was tall, with a muscular build, charismatic, tattooed, wearing a very fitted high-end suit, elegant, giving off an aura of danger and intimidation. He had a box in his hands. And a letter.
"Who are you? Did you know my mother?"
she wondered in perfect English. (Zaida was a language teacher back home).
"Yes, I protected her from her ex-husband, Ilkhan Tarlati, your former stepfather, head of a cartel clan back in her home city, in exchange for her valuable skills for my empire... Dulce left this for you."
He approached and handed her the letter and the small metal box. Zaida did not want to believe this man who was telling her such terrible and unexpected things about her own mother. The mafia was after her? This improbable revelation drew a shudder of dread from her. She took the objects, with a look of apprehension toward the man who was telling her all this. She opened the box; her mother's girlhood necklace gleamed, shining with golden reflections, the engraving on the back was personalized. Zaida read her own date of birth there. Her mother had worn it on her at all times. It held a strong symbolic weight regarding the regard she had held for her all those years. In the false bottom of the box, an encrypted key... Zaida's eyes went wide and she met the gaze of the man across from her for a second, who remained stoic. Then she finally set about opening the white envelope with a trembling hand to read the letter Dulce had addressed to her before she died...