Chapter 3 - THE WAKE WITHOUT A CORPSEThe chapel at Jardines del Recuerdo was bathed in a suffocating, sickly-sweet perfume of white lilies and bruised roses. A polished mahogany casket sat at the head of the room, draped in expensive floral arrangements sent by corporate partners who had no idea the woman inside was currently sitting in a high-security safehouse drinking hot tea.
The casket was empty, of course. Inside lay only a collection of heavy lead weights wrapped in blankets to mimic the correct human mass, sealed shut by order of the grieving widower.
Víctor Salgado stood near the entrance, wearing a custom-tailored Tom Ford black suit that cost more than most families in Toluca made in six months. He had perfected a posture of shattered devastation—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes downcast, moving through the crowd with the slow, agonizing grace of a man whose soul had been ripped from his chest.
"I am so, so sorry for your loss, Víctor," murmured Carlos Mendoza, the senior vice president of Salgado & Associates, pressing a sympathetic hand against Víctor's shoulder. "Elena was a saint. The world won't be the same without her."
"Thank you, Carlos," Víctor replied, his voice thick with practiced sorrow. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I just... I keep expecting her to walk through the front door. Every time the wind rattles the windows at home, I turn around looking for her. The house is so empty. So cold."
Standing just a few feet away, dressed in a tight black mourning dress that clung to her curves, Renata del Valle played her part to absolute perfection. She dabbed at her dry eyes with a black lace handkerchief, keeping her distance from Víctor just enough to avoid raising local gossip, but close enough to share secret, knowing glances whenever someone turned their back.
Just twenty-four more hours, Renata thought, her heart racing with a dizzying mix of greed and adrenaline. Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, the insurance wire transfer clears. Nine hundred million pesos. We’ll be in Madrid by tomorrow night.
As if summoned by the thought, the heavy double doors at the back of the chapel swung open.
The low murmur of condolences instantly died away. The entire room went dead silent.
A sharp, rhythmic click of leather shoes echoed across the marble floor.
It wasn't a local mourner. It wasn't a weeping relative.
It was Adrián Cruz.
He strode down the center aisle alone. He wore a crisp, immaculate black overcoat, silver hair brushed straight back, and an expression so terrifyingly calm that several elderly attendees instinctively stepped back. Behind him walked two massive private security guards in dark suits, carrying a heavy metallic briefcase between them.
Víctor’s blood ran instantly cold. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
What is he doing here? Víctor thought, his throat tightening. Adrián Cruz is the owner of Grupo Atlántico. He shouldn't be at a minor policyholder's funeral. Why is he looking at me like that?
Adrián stopped directly in front of the mahogany casket. He looked down at the polished wood, then turned his head slowly, locking his piercing blue eyes onto Víctor.
"Mr. Salgado," Adrián said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent chapel, cutting through the heavy air like a scalpel.
Víctor forced a weak, trembling smile, stepping forward with his hand extended.
"Mr... Mr. Cruz. I am deeply honored you came. I know Elena’s policy was handled through your firm, but to have the CEO himself pay his respects..." Víctor’s voice hitched on cue. "It means the world to me in my darkest hour."
Adrián did not take Víctor’s outstretched hand. He simply stared down at it until Víctor slowly, awkwardly pulled it back, wiping his palm against his trousers.
"You must be missing her terribly, Víctor," Adrián said, his tone dripping with a sarcasm so dense you could cut it with a knife. "A tragic accident. Swept away by a sudden blizzard on Nevado de Toluca. Body lost beneath ten feet of snow. No trace left behind. A devastating end to a young mother's life."
"It... it destroyed me," Víctor whispered, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I wake up screaming every night."
"Well, you won't have to suffer much longer," Adrián replied smoothly, turning his gaze toward the crowd of stunned mourners. "Because I have some wonderful news for everyone gathered here today."
Renata froze near the back row, her hand gripping the back of a wooden pew so tightly her knuckles turned chalk white.
"Wonderful news?" Víctor echoed, blinking in confusion, a cold sweat breaking out along his hairline. "Mr. Cruz, I... I don't understand. My wife is dead."
"Is she?" Adrián asked softly.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, Adrián signaled the two security guards behind him.
The heavy oak side doors of the chapel burst wide open.
Bright, blinding afternoon sunlight poured into the dim room, casting long, sharp shadows across the floor.
And there, standing in the doorway, framed by the brilliant light, was Elena Montiel.
She was wearing a vibrant crimson coat that seemed to burn against the dreary black of the funeral. Her left arm was in a pristine white cast, her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves, and resting securely in a baby carrier against her chest was a tiny, sleeping newborn infant wrapped in a soft blue blanket.
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She looked alive. Radiant. Unbroken.
And she was staring straight down the aisle at her husband.
