Baltasar confronts you openly after the second incident, as if he’s been waiting for permission to seize control. He says the workers respect Nahuel more than they respect you, and the insult is aimed to sting. He says the hacienda is becoming unstable, and the word unstable makes you think of creditors, courts, men with ink-stained fingers who can take land legally without drawing a knife. You remind Baltasar whose name is on the property, and he smiles too politely, the way a man smiles at someone he plans to outlast. He claims he’s protecting you, that he’s been protecting the Montoya name for years, that Aurelio trusted him. The mention of Aurelio makes your stomach tighten, because that trust is what buried you in debt. You ask for records, for ledgers, for explanations of expenses that never made sense, and Baltasar promises to bring them. He doesn’t, and every delay feels like a door closing. Your instinct, sharpened by grief, tells you Baltasar is hiding something large enough to crush you. Still, suspicion alone is not proof, and proof is what courts respect.
“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” THEY WARNED YOU. YOU BOUGHT HIM ANYWAY… AND THAT NIGHT YOU LEARNED WHY MEN WOULD RATHER BURN THEIR SILVER THAN KEEP HIM CLOSE.
