“Are you the advocate for lost people?” the girl whispered.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Elisenda looked at the man. “You have 48 hours to return Lucia’s mother to the nearest police station, unharmed, or I file this. And by the way, your purchase offer is void. I just donated the building to a collective of refugee advocates. You’d have to sue the entire neighborhood.”

Elisenda didn’t ask who the men were. She knew. The same names her grandfather had hidden from. The surnames had changed, but the suits were the same. Now they ran private security firms, data centers, “logistics solutions.” They didn’t use Falangist bullets. They used legal injunctions, NDAs, and offshore accounts. They buried people alive in paperwork.

He left.