Chapter 3 - The 7:30 AM DossierAt precisely 7:28 AM, the doorbell of the Villarreal residence rang.
Alejandro, dressed in a custom charcoal-gray Tom Ford suit, opened the door himself. Standing there was Mateo, looking like he hadn't slept a wink, holding a thick leather-bound folder and a steaming cup of espresso.
“Morning, boss. You’re a monster for making me wake up at dawn, but what I found inside these digital vaults is even more monstrous,” Mateo said, stepping past him into the foyer.
They sat at the minimalist dining table. Mateo opened the folder, spreading out bank statements, wire receipts, and forged property deeds.
“Your mother and brother weren't just taking allowance money, Alejandro,” Mateo explained, tapping a finger on a series of transactions. “For the past four years, Ofelia has been systematically draining the corporate contingency funds. Over 14 million pesos have been funneled through a fake logistics company registered under a maiden name she used decades ago.”
Alejandro’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the documents. “And Diego?”
“Diego is the frontman,” Mateo continued. “He used your mother’s stolen capital to purchase three commercial plazas in San Pedro and a luxury penthouse in Cancún. But here is the kicker—the signature on the corporate asset transfer papers? It’s not yours.”
Alejandro looked up sharply. “Whose is it?”
“It’s forged,” Mateo smiled grimly. “And badly, I might add. Someone practiced your signature, but they messed up the stroke on the letter ‘A’. Furthermore, according to the public registry, they filed these fraudulent documents just two days ago while you were out of the country on that business trip to Monterrey Tech.”
Alejandro stood up, buttoning his jacket. The pieces of the puzzle clicked together with terrifying clarity. This wasn't a sudden family dispute. This was a premeditated coup d'état orchestrated by his own flesh and blood to strip him of his life’s work while leaving him legally liable for millions in unpaid taxes.
“Mateo,” Alejandro said, picking up his leather briefcase. “Are the federal tax police and the state attorney general’s office ready?”
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“They’ve been waiting for my green light since 6:00 AM,” Mateo replied, zipping up his laptop. “Do we pull the trigger?”
“No,” Alejandro said with a dark, predatory smile. “Let’s let them walk into the trap first.”
