Chapter 1 — The Scent of a Crime
It was barely seven in the morning. Federico had woken up determined to conquer the day—no delays, no wasted time.
That was precisely when his mother made her dramatic, entirely unexpected entrance into the dining room. She stopped at the threshold, inhaled so forcefully that the tablecloth nearly took flight, and fixed him with the gaze of a medieval inquisitor.
The young man gave a small start, tightening his grip on the teacup before setting it carefully back onto its saucer. A faint chill crept down his spine.
“Federico,” she whispered—though in her personal dictionary that amounted to broadcasting the news to the entire neighborhood—“today you look like a mystery with legs. You leave sentences unfinished, trailing ellipses from your lips… or rather, from whatever your own conscience is trying so hard to conceal.”
Federico froze, one hand resting on his toast as a blush climbed slowly up his neck. The butter knife lingered in midair before settling back onto the plate.
“I suspect there’s a young lady involved,” she continued, advancing like a determined hound, “because you’re positively drenched in cologne. Good Lord! And why are you turning red now? You look like a beetroot!”
The warmth crept higher into his face and his shoulders stiffened. His eyes searched desperately for an escape that did not exist while his mother pressed forward, fueled by her own theatrics.
“You’re of an age now—I understand that. Naturally, girls will start catching your attention. But look at you… you’re practically glowing like an overripe tomato ready to burst! There is nothing unnatural in what you feel, Federico. It is neither outrageous nor offensive in the eyes of God for a handsome young man like you to begin experiencing… such things. But come now—out with it! Tell me who she is!”
He remained motionless, cheeks burning, hands rigid against the table, while she raised her voice and intensified her argument.
“Federico, your silence will get you nowhere. People love to talk, and the neighbors even more so. Soon they’ll be gossiping—whether this girl is some common floozy or at least comes from respectable stock. Do you hear me? Or have the fumes from that lotion completely clouded your judgment?”
Federico parted his lips as if to answer, only to snap them shut the instant she raised a hand with theatrical authority. He could only wait for the tension to pass, his fingers drumming nervously along the rim of his plate.
Outside, the distant clatter of a carriage rolling down the street clashed with the heavy silence inside the dining room, where his every movement felt like evidence in an invisible trial.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0VqHXd8oPT
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Chapter 2 — Before Turning the Corner 19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYgZ8He2n7Y
Federico’s mother sat down across from him—but not to eat. She folded her hands like someone about to conduct a solemn interrogation; then smoothed a crease in the fabric with meticulous care before returning her gaze to her son.
Federico stayed rigid, clutching his cup, his toast untouched.
“How often do you visit the upper rooms on Monjitas Street, Federico?” she demanded suddenly, her voice pretending to be casual but sharp as a guillotine.
Federico choked on his milk. The sip froze in his mouth as his fingers tightened around the cup. A sudden heat rose to his neck; the porcelain trembled slightly in his damp hands.
“That doesn’t concern me,” she continued, waving a hand as if shooing a fly. “If you want to waste your youthful energy in those dens of ill repute, that’s your business. But the moment you set your eyes on a young lady of good name… ah! That is a horse of a different color!”
She rose with exaggerated solemnity and began circling the table as if presiding over a domestic tribunal.
“That already puts all of us at risk, Federico. All of us! Don’t look at me as if I were an intruder. For heaven’s sake, I am your mother!”
Federico remained frozen, staring at the marmalade, while she continued her relentless litany:
“Just imagine—the gossip, the whispers at the social club, the dinner parties… it could all collapse with a single misunderstood glance at some young woman. Yes, you come from an illustrious family—no one doubts that—but instinct is instinct, Federico. Your body grows and changes, and passion ignites. To play with that is to play with fire; you could end up burning us all.”
He gripped his spoon as if her words were invisible blows. His silence, far from calming her, only seemed to fuel her imagination.
“Oh, Federico!” she exclaimed, laughing as the sound filled the room. “Look at you! Your hands are shaking, your face is burning… you’re closer to that girl’s heart than to remembering how to breathe. And when that happens, no saint in heaven nor any lawyer on earth will protect us from scandal.”
Suddenly she stopped in front of him. Her theatrics vanished like a candle snuffed out with calculated coolness. She placed a hand on his shoulder with firm authority.
“One more thing,” she whispered. “Though your shoulders may already look like a man’s, and that cologne tries to mask the truth… don’t fool yourself. You’re still only sixteen.”
Federico looked up for the first time. His mother’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of triumph and warning.
“Sixteen,” she repeated, tapping him lightly on the cheek. “And still wet behind the ears. Don’t try to gallop before you’ve learned to walk.”
Federico opened his mouth, finally ready to respond, but at that instant the metallic clatter of hooves on cobblestones burst into the room like a godsend. The carriage stopped outside the window, casting a long shadow across the breakfast table.
His mother straightened like a queen concluding an audience.
“Well, we’ve talked enough. The driver is waiting. Go on, off you go… before that fragrance of yours finishes off the horses.”
Federico sprang to his feet. He grabbed his jacket and left without a word, his face still flushed. He climbed into the stiff carriage, keeping the same solemn expression he’d worn through breakfast. Sitting bolt upright, hands on his knees, he set off as the horses trotted over the cobbles.
He held his composure until they turned the corner. Only when the house disappeared from view did he burst into the raucous laughter he had been barely containing. He slumped back against the seat, still laughing, as the city—bustling and indifferent to maternal dramas—spread out before him.
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