Anton
As I walked down the quiet halls of Bauman headquarters, I reflected on the reason Leonel had summoned me to his office.
I knew exactly what my grandfather wanted to discuss.
Since I’d arrived, I had heard he’d returned from London and, true to form, hadn’t wasted a second resting. Of course not.
For him, life was all about decisions.
Leonel Baumann wasn’t the kind of man to take it easy—not even after a transatlantic trip that would’ve left any other eighty-year-old exhausted.
The secretary greeted me with a small smile and, before I could even ask anything, said:
"Mr. Baumann is already expecting you. You may go in, Mr. Anton."
I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
There he was, sitting with perfect posture in his leather armchair.
Next to him was Dr. Vasquez, the family lawyer for over three decades, holding a folder of documents I knew all too well.
"I thought you were just calling me in for coffee, Grandpa," I tried to ease the tension, my tone laced with light ir
