Chapter 2051 - 844: Crush Those Restless Idiots!

He wanted to say something, but couldn't.

He just stood there, accompanying her.

February 15, 1998, early morning, Quito, Presidential Palace basement.

When Sinopiquiar was dragged out, his legs were too weak to stand.

He knew what day it was today.

Extradition.

To Mexico City.

To face trial by the Mexican people.

He struggled to say something, but with a gag in his mouth, he couldn't utter a word.

He was thrown into an armored vehicle.

The door closed, darkness engulfing everything.

The vehicle started moving.

Amidst the roar of the engine, he heard people whispering nearby.

"...public trial... death penalty..."

He closed his eyes.

The face of that three-year-old child surfaced again in his mind.

February 15, 1998, afternoon, Mexico City, National Palace.

Victor stood at the window, looking at Paseo de la Reforma outside.

The traffic was slow, yet orderly.

In the distance, the newly built "Phoenix Nest" stadium gleamed under the sunlight.

Bramo entered through the door.

"Mr. Victor, Sinopiquiar has arrived. He's locked in Northern Prison, awaiting trial."

Victor nodded.

"When's the trial?"

"Next Monday. The special court is ready."

Victor remained silent for a few seconds.

"That child—Diego Espinoza—does he have any family left?"

Bramo nodded.

"An aunt in Guayaquil. His brother, the child's father, is also dead. She's the only family left."

Victor turned around.

"Bring her here. Let her sit in the court, watch with her own eyes."

Bramo hesitated for a moment.

"Mr. Victor, wouldn't that be too—"

"Cruel?"

Bramo said nothing.

Victor looked at him.

"When that child was burned to death, his aunt wasn't there with him. She will regret that for the rest of her life."

He paused.

"Now let her sit there, watch the person who killed him die. At least, she can have some closure."

Bramo was silent for a few seconds.

"Yes."

He turned to leave.

"Wait." Victor called him back.

Bramo looked back.

Victor walked to the window, looking outside.

"Tell Bennett, before the trial, let Sinopiquiar meet someone."

Bramo was taken aback.

"Who?" 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

Victor didn't turn around.

"Diego Espinoza's aunt."

February 15, 1998, evening, Northern Prison.

Sinopiquiar sat in the cell, staring blankly at the wall opposite.

The door opened.

A woman in her forties, dressed in black, expressionless, entered.

Sinopiquiar looked at her.

He didn't know her.

The woman walked up to him and stopped.

"Are you Sinopiquiar?"

Sinopiquiar nodded.

The woman was silent for a few seconds.

Then she spoke, her voice very calm:

"Diego Espinoza was my nephew."

Sinopiquiar's face turned pale.

"He was three years old when he died."

The woman looked at him, the look in her eyes made him tremble all over.

"His mother ran out holding him and was pinned to the ground and killed by your men. He was pulled out of his mother's arms, thrown on tires, and burned to death."

Sinopiquiar wanted to say something, but his lips were trembling, and no words came out.

"I came today just to see you."

The woman's voice was still very calm.

"To see what the person who killed my nephew looks like."

She stared at him for a good ten seconds.

Then she turned around and left.

The door closed.

Sinopiquiar collapsed to the ground, shaking all over.

The look in that woman's eyes was more terrifying than any torture he had ever seen.

It wasn't anger, it wasn't hatred, it was—calmness.

Like looking at a corpse.

February 16, 1998, morning, Mexico City, Paseo de la Reforma.

The procession was even longer than yesterday.

People were holding signs: "Trial the murderer!" "Avenge Diego!" "Victor, we support you!"

When passing the National Palace, some people stopped and bowed towards the palace gates.

An old man, in his seventies, with white hair, wearing old clothes, stood among the crowd, bowed deeply towards the palace gates.

Someone next to him asked, "Old gentleman, who are you?"

The old man straightened up.

"I am a Mexican."

He said.

"I have lived for more than seventy years, and this is the first time I feel that being a Mexican can be so proud."

February 16, 1998, afternoon, National Palace, Victor's office.

Bramo placed the latest opinion poll on the table.

"Mr. Victor, your approval rating has gone up again. It's now seventy-three percent."

Victor glanced at it but said nothing.

Casare grinned beside him.

"Boss, you're more popular now than any president in history."

Victor raised his head.

"Being popular is useless. What matters is that they know I can protect them."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the parade was still going on.

Those signs, those faces, those waving arms.

"A week ago," he said, "those who were killed, no one knew who they were. Now, all of Mexico is seeking justice for them."

He turned around.

"This is the general trend."

Bramo waited for him to continue.

Victor walked back to his desk and picked up a document.

"Tell Bennett, during the trial, broadcast it live. Let all of Mexico, all of Latin America, watch."

He paused.

"Watch how we protect our people."

"And also crush those restless fools!"