Chapter 4 - THE FIRST CRY AND THE STOLEN FILEAlejandro crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing the surgeon by the lapels of his scrubs. "Tell me. Are they alive?"
Dr. Mendoza looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of professional exhaustion and profound relief. "It was touch-and-go, Mr. Villarreal. The internal bleeding was caused by severe physical trauma to her abdomen—she took a heavy blow within the last twenty-four hours. We had to perform an emergency classical C-section."
Alejandro’s breath hitched. "And the baby?"
The doctor offered a tired, genuine smile. "A boy. Premature, weighing just four pounds, but he's breathing on his own. We have him in the neonatal intensive care unit right now. And your wife... Camila is stable, though heavily sedated. She's a fighter, Mr. Villarreal. She hung on by sheer willpower."
Alejandro closed his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as the crushing weight on his chest lightened just a fraction. "Thank God."
"You can see her in an hour once she's moved to the VIP recovery wing," Dr. Mendoza added, patting Alejandro's arm. "But I must warn you, Mr. Villarreal. Her body is under extreme stress. Whatever put her in that condition—she needs absolute peace. No shocks, no trauma."
As the doctor walked away, Mateo leaned in close. "Boss, security just flagged an anomaly on the hospital's private intranet network. Someone tried to access Camila's medical charts from an internal terminal five minutes ago."
Alejandro’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure ice. "Inside the hospital? Find them."
"Already on it. IT has locked down the terminal on the third floor—the old administrative archives. No one gets out of this building without my men clearing them."
"Let's go," Alejandro said, his boots clicking rhythmically against the pristine hospital floor as he marched toward the elevators, every drop of blood in his veins boiling for retribution.
They took the service stairs to the third floor, moving in absolute silence. The third floor was largely abandoned, smelling of old paper, dust, and industrial bleach. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, distorted shadows down the narrow hallway.
At the end of the corridor, room 304—the old records room—had its door cracked open. A thin sliver of light spilled out onto the linoleum floor.
Alejandro signaled Mateo to take the flanks. With a swift, practiced kick, Mateo sent the wooden door crashing inward.
Inside, sitting at a metal desk illuminated only by the green glow of an old computer terminal, was a man wearing a hospital orderly uniform. Spread across the desk were printed medical files detailing Camila’s exact blood type, surgical notes, and the newborn's genetic markers.
The man slowly stood up, turning around to face them. He wasn't young. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a sharply lined face, and a familiar, arrogant smirk playing at the corners of his thin lips.
Alejandro stopped dead in his tracks. The world around him seemed to vanish, replaced by a roaring sound in his ears that drowned out everything else.
It was impossible. It defied biology, history, and every memory engraved on his soul.
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"Hello, my boy," the man said, his voice deep, gravelly, and dripping with condescension. "You always did have a terrible habit of showing up where you aren't wanted."
Alejandro’s voice was a strangled whisper, trembling with a mixture of terror and white-hot rage. "Father... You're dead. I buried you."
