Chapter 5 - The Web and the Bait
For the next six weeks, Nicolás played a game of psychological chess that made my hair stand on end.
When Emiliano reached out through an intermediary Instagram account, sending a carefully worded message dripping with fabricated paternal grief, Nicolás didn't lash out. He didn't block him. He responded with the cautious, insecure curiosity of an emotionally starved teenager.
> **Nicolás:** *I don't know what to say. Tomás always told me you had your reasons, but it was hard growing up without you.*
> **Emiliano:** *My boy! If you only knew the agony I’ve lived with. Tomás poisoned your mind because he was jealous of my success. He kept you hidden away in that dirty shop. But that’s over now. I’m going to buy you the world, Nico. Anything you want. An apartment in Zapopan, a new car, entrance to the best private universities in Europe.*
Every single text, every audio note, every empty promise was immediately backed up to three separate encrypted cloud drives and a physical hard drive locked in our shop safe.
Emiliano invited Nicolás to secret lunches at high-end steakhouses in the financial district. Nicolás attended three of them, wearing simple clothes, listening wide-eyed as Emiliano coached him on how to behave around Don Ernesto Luján.
"When you meet Don Ernesto," Emiliano had told him during their third lunch, as captured on the digital audio recorder running in Nicolás’s breast pocket, "you need to emphasize that your technical genius comes from the Salvatierra bloodline. You mention that your uncle Tomás is a simple technician who provided basic shelter, but that I was the one funding your private research behind the scenes. Do you understand, Nico? It’s for your own good. A boy of your intellect can't be associated with blue-collar labor."
"I understand completely, Emiliano," Nicolás had replied in the recording, his voice the very model of obedient humility. "I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who was responsible for where I am today."
Meanwhile, the official letter arrived from the Ministry of Innovation, Science, and Technology.
Nicolás’s multi-stage thermodynamic recapture system hadn't just won a youth prize; it had been selected as the single most viable commercial energy innovation of the year. The National Youth Innovation Award ceremony was scheduled to take place at the historic Teatro Degollado.
The national press would be there. State senators, private industrial magnates, and venture capitalists had confirmed their attendance.
And, most importantly, Don Ernesto Luján was the honorary keynote sponsor.
The moment the announcement went public, the Salvatierra family went into overdrive. Emiliano contacted the organizing committee, making a massive sixty-thousand-peso corporate donation through his consulting firm to secure front-row VIP box seating for himself, my parents, and Don Ernesto’s entourage.
He texted Nicolás:
> **Emiliano:** *This is our moment, son. The press will be everywhere. When they call your name, I will be the one to escort you onto the stage. I bought a 2024 BMW M3 for you. I’m going to present the keys to you right at the podium. It will cement our family legacy in front of the entire nation. Don Ernesto will see that the Salvatierra blood is royal.*
I stood in our small living room, watching Nicolás polish his shoes—an old pair of black leather dress shoes he had worn to his ninth-grade graduation, now polished until they mirrored the ceiling light.
"You don't have to go through with this, Nico," I said, leaning against the doorframe, feeling an ache of exhaustion deep in my bones. "We can skip the ceremony. We can mail them a letter accepting the award. We don't need their circus."
Nicolás stopped his brush, looking up at me. His gaze was steady, dark, and filled with a profound, immovable resolve.
"Dad," he said softly, "you spent seventeen years hiding your pain so I wouldn't feel like an orphan. You took every insult my grandparents threw at you. You let Lucía walk away. You sold your tools. You worked until your hands bled so that I could have books, computers, and food."
He stood up, walking over to me, towering an inch above me now.
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"They wrote a script where you are the failure and Emiliano is the savior," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Tonight, I’m tearing that script up in front of the people they care about most. Put on your suit, Dad. You're sitting in the center aisle."
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