We couldn't stay hidden. We had to see it through. We followed the commotion to the Alcantara compound, blending into the growing crowd of reporters and onlookers.
We saw Don Ricardo Alcantara being led out of his mansion by police, a jacket over his head, but his proud posture was broken. We saw Hector, crying, being put into a separate car.
And then we saw Arturo Vega. He came out last, his hands cuffed behind his back. His face was a stone mask of defiance. But as he was led to the police car, his hawk-like eyes scanned the crowd.
They passed over the people, the cameras, and stopped. They locked directly onto me.
He couldn't see Luna, but he could see me. And in that look, there was no anger, no threat. There was a strange, cold acknowledgment. A professional respect for a worthy opponent. Then he ducked into the car, and the door slammed shut.
It was over.