Chapter 3 - The Guardian of the Nursery
The first three days of Sofía's residency inside the Bosques de las Lomas fortress were a battle against decades of entrenched luxury.
Under her strict supervision, the opulence of the nursery was systematically dismantled. The heavy silk drapes were torn down and replaced with simple, unbleached organic cotton curtains that let the morning sun filter through without trapping chemical dust. The gold-threaded blankets were locked away, replaced by plain, rough-washed hospital sheets that Sofía had personally brought from her own apartment—sheets that had been boiled in pure water and baking soda.
The mansion’s staff watched her with a mixture of awe and resentment. To them, she was an intruder from the slums of Mexico City, dictating orders in a house where a single painting in the hallway could buy her entire neighborhood.
But the results were undeniable.
By the fourth morning, Mateo's skin had transformed from an angry, weeping crimson to a soft, healthy baby pink. The desperate, throat-tearing screams that had haunted the corridors for nearly two months were replaced by soft gurgles and tentative, experimental coos.
"Look at him," Valeria whispered on the fifth afternoon. She was sitting on the floor of the nursery, watching Mateo roll over on a plain cotton mat, reaching his tiny fingers toward a simple wooden rattle Sofía had bought from a street vendor. "He’s... he’s a normal baby."
Sofía smiled, checking the boy's temperature with a standard digital thermometer. "His skin barrier is regenerating. The contact dermatitis is fading because we removed the constant chemical insult. He isn't in pain anymore, Valeria."
Valeria looked up at Sofía, her eyes clear of the frantic terror that had consumed her for weeks. Over the past few days, a quiet understanding had formed between the two women. Valeria was a creature of high society, raised to be an ornament for a powerful man, but her love for her son was real.
"Nicolás and I... we are over, Sofía," Valeria said suddenly, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. "We haven't been intimate in over a year. The engagement was a contract signed by our fathers to merge shipping routes in Veracruz. When Mateo got sick, I came back because I was terrified, and because I thought Nicolás’s power could fix anything. But being here... seeing how he lives in this fortress of paranoia... it suffocates me."
Sofía paused, wrapping her stethoscope neatly. "He is a complicated man."
"He is a dangerous man," Valeria corrected gently. "But he loves Mateo more than life itself. And for the past five days, I’ve watched him watch you. He doesn't look at you the way he looks at the rest of the world, Sofía. He looks at you like you are the first true thing he has ever encountered."
Before Sofía could respond, the heavy oak door opened, and Nicolás entered. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick wrists and a faint, jagged scar that ran from his wrist up into his sleeve—a reminder of a past he could never fully leave behind.
"Valeria," Nicolás said, his voice level. "Your father’s car is downstairs. The legal separation paperwork regarding the estate and your trust fund has been finalized. You are free to return to your penthouse in Polanco."
Valeria stood up, smoothing her dress. She didn't look angry; she looked profoundly relieved. She walked over to the mat, knelt down, and kissed Mateo's forehead. "Goodbye, my sweet boy. Mommy will see you this weekend."
She stood up, looked at Nicolás with a sad, knowing smile, and then turned to Sofía. "Take care of him, Sofía. Both of them."
When Valeria left, the nursery grew intensely quiet. The space felt altered, the heavy weight of a forced family dynamic lifting, leaving behind an electric, charged silence between the mafia don and the public hospital nurse.
Nicolás walked over to the crib, watching Mateo, who was now sleepily blinking, his tiny thumb finding his mouth.
"He doesn't cry when I touch him now," Nicolás said, his voice surprisingly raw. He reached down with a massive, scarred hand, gently stroking the baby's soft cheek with the back of his knuckle. Mateo didn't flinch; he leaned into the touch, letting out a soft sigh.
"He knows you are his father, Nicolás," Sofía said, using his first name for the first time without realizing it. "He just didn't want the pain that came with the environment."
Nicolás turned his head, his gray eyes pinning her against the simple cotton drapes. "The toxicologist report came back an hour ago."
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Sofía’s breath hitched. "And?"
"The preservative in that bottle wasn't just un-diluted," Nicolás said, his eyes darkening into a shade that promised violence. "It was laced with a synthetic compound designed to mimic severe chronic eczema. It was formulated to ensure that no standard steroid cream or allergy medicine would ever cure it. Someone wanted my son to be in permanent, agonizing distress."
