Chapter Two: Alonso’s Legacy

Alonso's pov

“Alejandro, ponte los zapatos,” I say, glancing at the clock. (“You’re going to be late for school.”)

He swings his feet from his seat at the breakfast table, making no move to obey. Instead, he pushes eggs around on his plate, sighing dramatically.

“I don't want to go today.” he mutters.

My brows lift. “Y eso por qué?” (And why is that?)

He shrugs, playing with the hem of his shirt. “Solo no tengo ganas.” (I just don’t feel like it.)

“Alejandro,” my mother says gently from across the table, folding her napkin neatly. “Te encanta la escuela.” (You love school.)

He pouts. “Not today.”

I set down my coffee cup and level him with a look. “La escuela no es opcional.” (School isn’t optional.) "Si yo tengo que trabajar, tú tienes que ir a clase."

(“If I have to work, you have to go to class.”)

He sighs again long and exaggerated, like a child shouldering the world’s greatest burden. “Bueno.” (Fine.)

Ana, his nanny, appears at the doorway with his backpack. He drags his feet as he walks toward her, but before leaving, he turns and runs back, throwing his arms around my waist

“Adiós, Papá.” (Bye, Papa.)

The tightness in my chest is familiar. It happens every time he says it. Every time he calls me Papá without hesitation. I rest a hand on his small back, steady and firm.

“Pórtate bien.” (Be good.)

With one last grin, he lets Ana take his hand, and they disappear down the hallway.

The house falls quiet.

I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my jaw. My mother watches me with knowing eyes. “Está creciendo tan rápido,” she says. “Pronto será más alto que tú.” (He’s growing so fast. Soon, he’ll be taller than you.)

I let out a low chuckle. “Lo dudo.” (I doubt that.)

A comfortable silence lingers between us. Then she sets down her teacup and says softly, “Lo estás haciendo bien, mi hijo.” (You’re doing well, my son.)

I nod, standing to retrieve my suit jacket. “Tengo reuniones hoy.” (I have meetings today.

She doesn’t say what I know she’s thinking. Siempre tienes reuniones. (You always have meetings.)

I press a kiss to her forehead before heading out the door.

---

The view from my office stretches over Barcelona, the city bustling with life beneath me. From up here, it’s distant like watching the world move from behind a glass barrier.

I should be focused on work. My company. The empire I’ve built from nothing.

But today, my mind drifts.

To the past.

To the people I lost.

To the day everything changed.

I remember it too clearly.

Alejandro’s first birthday. A day that should have been filled with laughter, family, and celebration.

My father, my brother Marcello, and his wife Lucia were in the car, heading to ABaC, a Michelin-starred restaurant where we planned to celebrate. They never arrived.

I was in a separate car with my mother, already on our way when the call came in.

A crash.

Their car crushed beyond recognition.

The sound of sirens filled the air as we pulled up to the hospital, but by then, it was too late.

I still remember the doctor’s voice. Cold. Detached.

My father.

Marcello.

Lucia.

Gone.

And then, the only survivor.

Alejandro.

A year old, barely clinging to life.

When I saw him in that hospital bed, so small and fragile, something inside me shifted. The weight of grief pressed down like a stone, but beneath it, something else settled.

Responsibility.

I had never planned to be a father. I was 24, focused on business, on growing my career, on becoming my own man. But life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. It throws you into the fire and expects you to survive.

Two weeks later, Alejandro woke from his coma. That moment seeing his eyes open, hearing the first weak sound from his lips ,I felt relief so overwhelming, I nearly collapsed.

But there was no time for that.

My mother and I buried the dead, and then we turned to the living.

Raising him wasn’t easy. I had to learn everything from scratch. How to hold a bottle. How to calm him when he cried at night. How to reassure him with steady hands when he was sick.

I was grieving, but I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. Alejandro needed me.

And somewhere along the way, he started calling me Papá.

At first, it was a slip, something the nanny had probably said around him. But then it stuck. He looked at me and saw a father, not an uncle. And I let him.

Because what else could I be?

I built my company the same way I built my life after loss through relentless work. The business was failing when I took over, still reeling from my father’s absence. But I refused to let it fall apart. I worked ruthless hours, signed aggressive deals, and restructured everything.

People called me cold. Calculated.

I didn’t care.

Success came, but at a cost.

I built an empire, but my personal life remained empty. Relationships were fleeting. Women were temporary distractions, none of them breaking past the walls I had constructed.

And now, standing in my office, staring out at a city that has given me so much and taken just as much away, I wonder if I even know how to live for something other than my company and Alejandro.

A sharp knock at my office door pulls me from my thoughts.

Miguel, my secretary, steps inside. “Señor Ignacio, Vincent Parker.”

I frown. “ What about him?”

Miguel hesitates before speaking.

“He wants to meet you.”

The room feels colder.

Miguel and I exchange glances, his expression unreadable as he waits for my response.

Slowly, I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled.

“Interesante,” I murmur. (Interesting.)

Because men like Vincent Parker don’t request meetings without an agenda.

And I have a feeling whatever he wants

it’s about to change everything.