—Clara, don't touch it, it has germs!
Clara placed her clean hands on Nico's trembling shoulders.
"Breathe," he said gently. "No one is going to hurt you anymore. Tell me your name."
"Nico," he whispered, trembling.
"Okay, Nico. I'm Clara. Now look at me." Clara ignored the chaos around her. "Why did you do this? Why are you saying we can't go upstairs?"
Nico looked up, saw the kindness in Clara's face, and felt his heart break because of the danger he was in.
"Because they're going to die," Nico said, and his sincerity hit Clara like a punch. "The car is bleeding."
"Bleeding?" Eduardo interjected, approaching. His tone was skeptical, but the word caught his attention.
“Brake fluid,” Nico said, turning to his boyfriend. He knew Eduardo collected cars. He had to speak his language. “It’s DOT 4, it smells sweet, like rotten fruit and alcohol. It was leaking behind the front left wheel.”
Beto let out a nervous and cruel laugh.
—Please, Mr. Eduardo. This kid already told me that story in the garage. I told him it was condensation from the air conditioner. That water company is just trying to make money by inventing problems.
"It's not water!" Nico insisted, standing up and pointing an accusing finger at the driver. "Water isn't oily. Water evaporates. That was glycol. And I heard the sound. Csss, csss, csss, like a snake. They didn't cut the cable, sir, they stung it."
Eduardo frowned. The description was too technical. A street kid could say “they cut the brakes.” But talking about glycol, a puncture instead of a cut, the difference between water and hydraulic fluid…
"Did they sting him?" Eduardo asked, crouching down as well, ignoring Vanessa's protests as she tugged at his sleeve.
"Yes," Nico said quickly, knowing he had only a few seconds before he was kicked out again. "It's a slow leak. The pedal feels good now, right?" He looked at Beto.
Beto crossed his arms arrogantly.
—The pedal is as firm as a rock. I braked perfectly right here.
"The car's in perfect condition because it still has pressure!" Nico shouted in frustration. "But every time you brake, it leaks a little, drop by drop. If you go out onto the highway on the first downhill, when the fluid runs out, air will get in, and then the pedal will go to the floor, and you won't be able to stop."
"Sir, honestly, this is a waste of time. At this rate, they'll miss their flight," Beto insisted.
"I said wait." Eduardo approached the Rolls-Royce. He didn't look underneath, he looked at the driver. "You say the pedal is as firm as a rock."
-Yes sir.
—And you —Eduardo looked at Nico—. You say it's a slow leak and that it will lose pressure if used.
"Yes, sir," Nico said, trembling but firm. "If you step on it hard and keep it there, it will sink."
Eduardo nodded slowly. He turned to Beto. His gray eyes, which had witnessed the closing of multi-million dollar deals, fixed on the driver with an intensity that made Beto swallow hard.
"Very well. We'll clear this up right now. We're not going to look under the car. We're not going to get any dirtier." Eduardo pointed to the open driver's side door. "Get in, Beto."
-Mister?
—Get in the car, start it, and do what the child says.
Beto paled slightly.
—But, sir, the engine, using up fuel…
"Take the pressure test," Eduardo ordered. And this time it was an order, not a request. "Slam the brake pedal all the way down and hold it there. Count to 10. If the pedal is still up when you reach 10, it means he was lying. I'll give the kid 10 dollars and send him home. We'll leave immediately."
Vanessa tried to speak, but Eduardo silenced her with a gesture.
—But if the pedal goes down… —Eduardo left the sentence hanging in the air, loaded with threat.
Beto, for a second, felt fear about the possible punishment, but he was absolutely sure that the boy was lying, so he continued.
"With pleasure, sir," Beto said with a forced smile. "I'll show you that my maintenance is impeccable."
Beto got into the car and closed the door. The sound of the V8 engine starting was a smooth, powerful purr. Nico clung to Clara's hand. He knew the truth. He knew what physics would do in the next few seconds. Beto put his hands on the steering wheel, looked at Eduardo through the windshield with a smug expression, and pressed the brake pedal. He pressed it all the way down. The car remained motionless. The pedal was firm.
"One," Beto said aloud, smiling.
"Two.
" "Three."
Beto kept the pressure on. He felt solid.
-Four.
Then it happened. Beto's smile faltered. He felt a slighter movement in the pedal.
"Five." Her voice sounded less confident. The pedal dropped one centimeter. The pressure in the perforated hose was overcoming the resistance of the hole. The fluid was being forced out.
"Six." The pedal sank a little more. It was a nauseating sensation, like stepping on quicksand. The firmness disappeared. Beto's face changed. The color drained from his cheeks, leaving him as pale as his gloves.
"Seven," he whispered. But he was no longer counting for the public; he was counting his own sentence.
The pedal continued to descend, smooth, relentless, silent, until with a dull thud that Beto felt in his bones, the metal of the pedal touched the carpet. The system was empty; there were no brakes. If they had been on the cliffside curve at 80 km/h, at that moment they would have been flying to their deaths.
Beto looked up. Through the glass, he saw Eduardo staring at him with an unreadable expression. He saw Clara hugging the child, and he saw Nico, the dirty, despised boy, looking at him not with triumph, but with sadness. The silence in the garden was profound.
"Sir," Beto stammered, his legs trembling. "The pedal... the pedal hit the bottom."
The silence that descended upon Castillo Mansion was so heavy it seemed to crush the air. There were no violins, no laughter, no whisper of the wind. Beto remained seated inside the Rolls-Royce, his foot pressed into the carpet, as if he were crushing the neck of his own pride. The arrogance that had defined him moments before had evaporated, leaving in its place the pure terror of someone who had just realized he had almost become an unwitting killer.
Eduardo Castillo said nothing at first. He stared at his driver through the windshield, his face a mask of stone, but his hands, clenched into fists at his sides, trembled with suppressed fury. He had trusted that man. He had entrusted him with the life of the woman he loved, and that man had been willing to ignore a deadly warning out of sheer pride.
"Get out," Eduardo ordered. His voice wasn't a shout, it was an icy whisper that cut through the silence.
Beto opened the door and stepped out, almost stumbling. He took off his peaked cap, crumpling it in his gloved hands. He no longer walked out like a captain; he walked out like a man who had just stared death in the face and realized that he himself had opened the door for it.
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