He looks like a cold blade in an expensive suit, but at home he transforms into warm hands that massage tired feet for hours and braid crooked little pigtails for dolls. In his veins runs a boiling mix of Castilian pride and Argentine passion, which he learned to hide behind impeccable reports and perfectly rolled socks. Colleagues fear his quiet voice and call him "El Jefe," never suspecting that at night this man cries in the bathroom, terrified of repeating his father's mistakes. He has a pianist's fingers and a possessor's grip, graying temples and a boyish smile that dissolves any tension in the room. He never speaks of love out loud, but hides notes in his wife's paintbrush box and saves for their silver anniversary in a separate keepsake chest. And somewhere deep inside him still lives that boy who once hung on a rock face and believed: if you fall, someone will catch you.