Federico—or Fede, as his family had once grown accustomed to calling him—was smiling.
Even though he was kneeling in the dirt before the stands in a wretched and humiliating state, his hands bound, his forehead pressed to the ground, every organ in his body groaning.
Half his face was numb. His left eye had taken a punch during the arrest and was swollen nearly shut. A long gash had been torn across his chin, bleeding without pause. One of his ribs throbbed from a kick, and his bound left wrist was badly sprained, the pain piercing to the bone.
And that was only his upper body.
But Fede was still smiling.
He smiled with extraordinary joy, relief, and sincerity, even with a hint of madness, no matter how sternly the Alert Officers escorting him ordered him to restrain himself.
Once, he had curled into a ball in a cramped, freezing, dark room, sustaining himself on hatred and shame. He had shivered amid endless screams and moans, relying on pain and fury to keep his body warm.
Whenever he recalled the countless days and nights spent in that tiny room, Fede instinctively tightened his body and slowed his breathing.
His mouth was filled with the taste of dirt and blood. Blood and saliva kept seeping from the corner of his lips, and he had neither the strength nor the leisure to wipe them away.
Compared to what he had once endured, these minor wounds and pains, this humiliation and wretchedness, were practically rewards from fate.
They reminded him of where he stood.
They heralded the revenge and delight that were soon to come.
And they foreshadowed the reward he was willing to pay anything to obtain.
The curve of Fede's lips widened further.
The lights around him shone as brightly as