Chapter 2 - CRACKS IN THE MARBLEThe Anatomy of an EmpireBy noon, the Mercedes was parked in the VIP slot of San Pedro’s most exclusive country club. While Doña Victoria sipped mimosas with Monterrey’s elite matrons, plotting charity galas funded by slave labor and shell companies, I remained stationed by the vehicle, reviewing my digital blueprint of the mansion on an encrypted burner phone.
The De la Vega fortune wasn't built on hard work or innovation; it was built on bodies. Through my nightly access to the mansion’s primary study—while pretending to polish the mahogany desks—I had managed to clone the hard drive of the patriarch’s home computer. Don Roberto De la Vega, Victoria’s husband, was a ghost in plain sight. Officially retired from his industrial conglomerate, he spent his days in his private study, drinking top-shelf scotch and managing a web of offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and Panama.
What Don Roberto didn't know was that every keystroke he made was now being mirrored onto my server.
Over the last month, I uncovered a masterpiece of corporate corruption. The De la Vega factories—the very industrial plants where I used to work twelve-hour shifts—had been systematically dumping toxic chemical waste into the San Juan River basin for over a decade. It was the exact same cocktail of industrial solvents and heavy metals that Elena had been forced to use without gear, and the exact same poison that had mutated my little Sofía’s DNA before she was even born.
They didn't just kill my wife by throwing her down a staircase; they were poisoning an entire region, buying off local environmental inspectors with pocket change.
"You look entirely too serious for a driver, Mateo."
I snapped out of my trance. Standing right beside the driver's window was Rodrigo De la Vega—the spoiled, arrogant, cocaine-addicted youngest son of the family. The exact monster who had triggered the paranoia in Doña Victoria’s twisted mind regarding Elena’s pregnancy.
Rodrigo smelled heavily of Tom Ford cologne, cheap tequila, and expensive perfume that didn't belong to his fiancée. His eyes were bloodshot, and his jaw twitched with nervous energy.
"Good afternoon, young master Rodrigo," I said, instantly lowering my gaze into the posture of a humble, cowering servant. "Just keeping an eye on the vehicle. The neighborhood parking can be unpredictable."
Rodrigo sneered, leaning against the polished door of the Mercedes with casual disrespect. He tossed a set of keys at my chest. I caught them smoothly without flinching.
"Take the car around to the east entrance of the clubhouse. My friends and I are heading out to my penthouse in Valle Oriente in an hour. And clean the back seats; some idiot spilled a drink last night, and my mother loses her mind if the car smells like a cheap bar."
"Right away, sir," I murmured, bowing my head slightly.
As Rodrigo staggered away toward the clubhouse terrace, my heart hammered against my ribs. That is the man, a voice roared in my head. That is the piece of garbage who walked past Elena every day, treating her like furniture, before his mother murdered her.
My burner phone vibrated in my pocket. A message from Arturo, the head of security.
“The bait is taken. Roberto De la Vega just authorized a wire transfer of two million pesos to an offshore account in Belize. I have the routing numbers, the authorization codes, and the digital signatures. We have them by the throat.”
May you like
I looked back toward the country club terrace, where Rodrigo was laughing loudly, raising a glass of champagne with his wealthy, untouchable friends.
Enjoy your champagne, Rodrigo, I thought, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine. Your final hangover is going to be permanent.
