3. Nobody Cries for the Dead

Meanwhile, in another part of the city, the Montoya mansion maintained an artificial calm — the kind that only exists when no one wants to look too deep. Camila Montoya came down the stairs quickly, her face pale, heading straight to the living room where her mother sat scrolling through her phone with a distracted expression.

"Mom… I'm scared," Camila said, clutching her arm. "They still haven't caught the killer. What if he comes for me?"

The woman looked up calmly. She stroked her daughter's hand with the ease of someone who couldn't imagine anything truly terrible happening to her favorite child.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "You're safe here. No one is going to touch you."

At that moment, the three brothers walked into the room. One mention of Camila's fear was enough. Sebastian, Lucas, and Adrian moved toward her without hesitation, surrounding her with protective gestures, assuring her that no one would harm her. Their attention was entirely on her. As always.

Suddenly Camila lowered her voice slightly.

"And… Valeria?" she asked, feigning concern. "She hasn't come home."

Her mother's expression shifted instantly. Pure irritation.

"That girl," she scoffed. "She's probably throwing a tantrum somewhere. She always was dramatic."

Camila pressed her mother's hand with apparent tenderness.

"Mom, calm down," she said with a gentle smile. "Maybe she went to a hotel or something. Besides, the killer still hasn't been caught — I don't think it's a good idea for her to come back right now."

The brothers nodded, agreeing without question. For them, Camila always said the right thing. The woman smiled, satisfied. Her younger daughter was everything a daughter should be. Sweet. Sensitive. Correct.

At that moment a household employee approached carefully.

"Ma'am… your husband's mother has arrived," she said. "She's at the entrance."

The woman's brow furrowed slightly, but she composed herself immediately.

"Let her in."

Seconds later, the old woman crossed the threshold. Her back was slightly hunched and her face carried a grief she made no attempt to hide. In her hands she held a framed photograph.

A photograph of Valeria Montoya Ferrer.

The room went silent.

The woman laughed with disbelief, eyeing the photograph her mother-in-law held as if it were a bad joke.

"What is this?" she said with a short laugh. "Another performance? Valeria put you up to this, didn't she? She always was good at making a scene."

The old woman raised her eyes slowly. They were tired, but firm — and they fixed on her daughter-in-law's face with a hardness that made the air in the room go heavy.

"Can't you see your own daughter is dead?" she said, her voice trembling with controlled fury.

Without another word, she handed over the documents. The death certificate. Dates. Signatures. Evidence impossible to dismiss.

The silence lasted only a few seconds.

One of the grandsons stepped forward, frowning, looking over the documents past his mother's shoulder.

"Grandma, don't start with your exaggerations," he said. "Valeria was always trouble. This is probably just another one of her scenes."

The sound of the slap rang through the entire room.

The old woman had struck him without hesitation, her hand trembling — but the gesture full of wounded dignity. Her breathing was unsteady, her eyes bright with pain and contained fury.

"That girl was my granddaughter," she snapped. "And you have no right to speak like that about someone who can no longer defend herself."

The mother stepped forward immediately, placing a hand on her son's shoulder as if he were the victim.

"That's enough," she said coldly. "You're overreacting. If Valeria died, she died saving her little sister. After all, that was her duty as the older daughter. And if she wasn't capable of fulfilling it… what was the point of her living in this house at all?"

The words landed like poison.

The old woman looked at her as if she were truly seeing her for the first time. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She didn't want to believe it. But there it was. Naked cruelty, spoken with perfect naturalness.

"You are not a family," she said, her voice breaking but steady. "You are a nest of snakes."

She turned without waiting for an answer.

"Karma doesn't make mistakes," she added before leaving. "And when it comes… it will have no mercy."

The door closed behind her.

Outside, she climbed into the car with slow, deliberate movements. The driver started the engine without a word. The old woman held the portrait of her granddaughter between her hands and looked at it, her eyes full of silent tears.

She couldn't believe Valeria had lived in a house like that. Surrounded by people who had never deserved her. By snakes who would one day pay for every word, every slight, every betrayal.

That same afternoon, Hector Montoya arrived at his mother's house. The trip had weighed on him more than he'd expected, and for the first time since everything had happened, something resembling unease began working its way through his chest. The maid let him in without a word. In the living room, the old woman sat in silence while another woman carefully placed a photograph on the table.

It was a photo of her with Valeria.

Hector stopped in his tracks. He stared at the image for several seconds, feeling the denial he'd maintained all day begin to crumble. Then it was true. His daughter was dead.

The old woman looked up with indifference, as if he were no more than an unwelcome visitor.

"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly.

Hector sighed and approached slowly.

"I came because you came to my home," he said. "And you said very hurtful things in front of my family."

The old woman let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Family?" she repeated. "You call that a family?"

She rose with difficulty, steadying herself against the back of the armchair. Her voice began to rise, loaded with years of contained anger.

"A family that's capable of handing over their own daughter as bait? Do you think that's human?"

The man dropped his gaze and stayed silent. He didn't deny it. He didn't argue.

"That was her duty as the older daughter," he said finally. "Besides, we were about to save her."

The old woman looked at him as if he had just said something unforgivable.

"Save her?" she cried. "You know why I let Valeria go live with you."

Hector raised his head.

"If it weren't for your wife insisting she wanted her daughter living with you," the old woman continued, "I would never have allowed Valeria to set foot in that house. Never."

Her voice trembled, but it didn't break.

"If I had known she was going to die in such a horrible way…" she drew a breath. "I would never have let you acknowledge her as your daughter."

The silence fell like a verdict.

Hector found no words. No defense, no excuses, no pride to hold him upright. Only the belated certainty that something had been broken beyond repair.

The old woman sat down slowly again and turned her gaze back to the photograph.

"Go," she said, her voice exhausted. "You're already too late."

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