that horrible sewer rat, had breached his security, ruined the wedding, and, worse still, was insulting his machine in front of his bosses.
"You!" Beto roared, forgetting all protocol. The driver lunged at Nico, grabbing him by the collar of his threadbare t-shirt. He lifted him off the ground with one hand, shaking him like a rag doll.
"I told you to get lost!" Beto shouted, spitting. "Criminal! Security, get this trash out of here. Look what he did to the lady's dress!"
"Let me go!" Nico gasped, choking. "Just check it. It's the brake fluid."
Vanessa emerged from the crowd, her face a perfectly acted mask of indignation.
"My God!" he exclaimed, bringing his hands to his mouth. "It's an attack, Eduardo, protect Clara. That boy might have a weapon. He's one of those violent beggars from the slums."
The security guards came running, surrounding Beto and the boy. The atmosphere was thick with violence. They were going to drag him away, beat him, and throw him out into the street. Nico felt like he couldn't breathe. He had failed. Nobody was listening.
"Take it out," Eduardo ordered, his voice harsh. Worried about his wife trembling in his arms, he looked at the black stain on Clara's dress with disgust.
His steps instinctively led him north, away from the dusty streets and tin-roofed houses, up the hill where the air was cleaner and the iron gates were gilded. Today was a special day in town, a day that even in the squalor of the workshop had been the talk of: the wedding of the century. Eduardo Castillo, heir to Castillo Industries, a man known as much for his immense fortune as for his obsessive collection of classic cars, was marrying Clara, an elementary school teacher who had won his heart. It was said that Clara was an angel, that she had invited half the town, and that there would be more than enough food.
Nico wasn't looking for a party, he was looking for an opportunity. Maybe washing dishes, maybe helping with parking, maybe just collecting leftovers they threw away; anything that could be turned into antibiotics.
As they reached the back walls of the Castillo mansion, the sound of violins and laughter hung in the air like expensive perfume. Nico knew a gap in the service fence, hidden behind some bougainvillea hedges, where he used to sneak in to watch Eduardo's cars when they were taken out to be washed. He slipped through the opening, scraping his arm, but he didn't care. He moved forward crouching, weaving through the shadows of the perfectly manicured gardens, feeling like an intruder in paradise.
He arrived at the main garage area, a structure larger and more luxurious than Nico's entire neighborhood combined, and there, parked in the shade of an immense oak tree, was the jewel in the crown: the classic Rolls-Royce Phantom. Nico gasped. He'd seen it in old magazines his father kept, but in person, it was otherworldly. Painted in a silver and black hue that seemed to drink in the sunlight, with chrome that gleamed like liquid mirrors, it was a machine of pure elegance, a king among automobiles. It was adorned with white silk ribbons and fresh flowers on the door handles. This was the carriage that would carry the newlyweds into their new life.
For a moment, Nico forgot about his father, his hunger, and his fear. Only pure admiration for the mechanic existed. He wanted to get closer, touch the cold metal, see the engine, which was surely a work of art. But the sound of gravel crunching under expensive shoes snapped him out of his reverie. He darted behind a pile of catering supply boxes , shrinking into a small, dirty ball.
Two people entered his field of vision, walking toward the garage. Nico peered through a gap between the boxes. The first was a woman. She wore a lavender bridesmaid dress that clung to her figure like a second skin. She was beautiful, in a cold, sharp way, like a diamond cut to wound. Nico recognized her from the newspaper photos: Vanessa, the bride's cousin. In the photos, she was always smiling, arm in arm with Clara. But the woman Nico saw now wasn't smiling. Her face was contorted in a grimace of such pure, visceral hatred that a chill ran down Nico's spine.
Beside her walked a man who didn't quite fit in at the wedding. He wore generic gray overalls, like the kind cleaning staff wear. But his hands… Nico looked at his hands. They were calloused and stained with oil. They were a mechanic's hands, but not a good one. They were rough hands.
"Are you sure no one saw you come in?" Vanessa asked, her voice a hissing whisper laden with venom.
"No one, miss. The staff is busy with the banquet," the man replied, pulling a dirty rag from his pocket. "But I still say this is risky."
“If they die, I don’t care if they kill each other,” Vanessa interrupted, the violence in her voice making Nico shrink even further. “In fact, it would be poetic. Clara always had everything, you know? Since she was a little girl, the prettiest doll, the best grades, her grandmother’s adoration. And now, now she gets Eduardo. She gets the fortune that should have gone to someone who actually knows how to use it. Someone of her own social class, not some puritanical schoolteacher playing at being a saint.”
Vanessa walked around the Rolls-Royce, running her perfectly manicured fingers over the hood, not with admiration, but with possession and contempt.
"I've always liked this car," Vanessa murmured, looking at her distorted reflection in the chrome. "Eduardo drove me in it once before. I knew him before she did. I should be the one getting married today. That idiot thinks she's better than me, too."
Vanessa finished saying those words with hatred, but then smiled maliciously.
"You know, he told me this vehicle was safe, solid, unbreakable. I want him to eat his words." He turned to the man in overalls, his eyes gleaming with malice. "I don't want them to get to the airport. I want the trip to end before it even begins. I want their stupid fairy tale to end in blood and twisted metal. Do it."
The man nodded, swallowing hard. He seemed nervous, but the greed in his eyes was stronger than his fear. He took something from his pocket. It was a needle, a long, thin industrial needle mounted on a wooden handle. Nico, from his hiding place, frowned. His mechanic's mind began processing what he saw at breakneck speed. What could he possibly do with a needle in an armored car like that?
The man threw himself to the ground and slid under the Rolls-Royce, just behind the left front wheel. Nico strained his ears, closed his eyes as his father had taught him. He blocked out the sound of the violins, the wind in the leaves, his own rapid breathing. He became a giant ear focused on the car's underbelly. He heard the man's fabric scrape against the asphalt. He heard a grunt of exertion, and then he heard him.
Beto tightened his grip, ready to throw Nico onto the gravel.
—Wait.
The voice was clear and authoritative. It wasn't Eduardo's; it was Clara's. The bride pulled away from her husband's embrace. She didn't look at her ruined dress. She looked into Nico's eyes. Despite the terror, despite the suffocation, the boy's eyes weren't looking to steal; they were looking to save. Clara was a teacher. She had spent years looking into the eyes of children who lied and children who told the truth, and she knew how to tell the difference. That boy was terrified, but not for himself.
"Let him go, Beto!" Clara ordered, taking a step forward.
—But, ma'am—the driver protested.
"I said let him go!" she shouted with a force that no one expected from the sweet school teacher.
Beto, surprised, opened his hand. Nico fell to his knees, coughing and rubbing his neck. Clara did something that caused gasps of horror among the high-society ladies. She knelt in the gravel. Her thousand-dollar dress lay on the dirt and stones, and she didn't seem to care in the slightest. She got down to the dirty boy's level, ignoring Vanessa who was yelling at her.
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