Chapter 3 - THE MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONShadows in the GuardhouseThe midnight shift at the De la Vega mansion was a masterclass in gothic silence. The towering iron gates sealed off the estate from the outside world, creating an isolated bubble of obscene wealth nestled against the foothills of the Sierra Madre mountains.
I parked the Mercedes in the subterranean garage, wiped down the dashboard, and checked my watch: 12:45 AM.
According to the guard rotation schedule I memorized weeks ago, this was the forty-minute window where the perimeter guards took their cigarette break behind the tennis courts, leaving the main security office completely unmanned except for Arturo.
I walked steadily across the imported Italian marble of the courtyard, my black leather shoes making no sound against the stone. I swiped my temporary clearance card at the side service entrance and slipped into the dim labyrinth of the service hallways.
The air in the mansion always smelled faintly of expensive potpourri designed to mask the underlying scent of old money and decay. I bypassed the grand staircase—the exact flight of stairs where Doña Victoria had hurled the heavy bronze statue at my pregnant wife—and slipped into the basement security annex.
Arturo was sitting at the master console, a half-empty bottle of tequila sitting next to his computer keyboard. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot from a lifetime of moral compromise. When the heavy steel door clicked shut behind me, he jumped, his hand instinctively dropping toward the holster on his belt.
"Relax, Arturo," I said calmly, stepping into the dim fluorescent light and removing my white chauffeur's cap. "It's just me."
Arturo exhaled a long, shaky breath, running a calloused hand over his bald head. He stared at me—not as a driver, but as a man who realized he had just sold his soul to the devil.
"You're out of your mind, Mateo," Arturo muttered, sliding a thick manila folder and a hard drive across the metal desk. "Do you realize what these documents contain? This isn't just tax fraud or corporate embezzlement. This is the entire foundation of the De la Vega empire. Every bribe paid to the state governor, every falsified environmental report, every offshore account used to hide their blood money."
I picked up the manila folder, flipping it open to reveal certified bank drafts, signed affidavits from former corrupt accountants, and digital logs.
"And do you have the proof linking Don Roberto directly to the industrial waste dumping that destroyed the San Juan River basin?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.
"It's all on that hard drive," Arturo whispered, leaning forward. "Including the internal security memos from three years ago. The ones Doña Victoria ordered me to shred after your wife... after Elena died."
My breath hitched. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
"Shred?" I repeated, stepping closer to the desk. "What do you mean, shred?"
Arturo looked away, unable to meet my eyes. "The night they threw Elena out onto the street like trash... Don Roberto wanted to call an ambulance. He knew Victoria had crossed a line. But Victoria threatened to expose his own financial crimes to the board if he interfered. They staged the security logs for that night. They deleted the CCTV footage of Victoria carrying the bronze statue to the service stairs. I was the one who had to wipe the servers clean, Mateo. I helped them cover up a murder."
Silence descended on the security room, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the hum of the computer fans.
I didn't yell. I didn't smash the desk. My fingers simply curled around the edge of the metal table until the joints popped.
"You're going to help me finish this, Arturo," I said, my voice as cold as a winter night in the mountains. "Not tomorrow. Tonight."
Before Arturo could answer, the red emergency indicator light on the master console began to flash violently.
Warning: Perimeter Breach - East Gate.
Both of us froze. On the main monitor, the infrared camera feed of the East Gate flickered to life. A sleek black SUV had pulled up to the outer gate, and a tall, imposing figure stepped out into the rain—someone holding a heavy leather briefcase, wearing a tailored suit that didn't belong to any local politician or business partner.
Arturo’s face drained of all color as he stared at the screen.
"Oh, God," Arturo gasped. "That's not a visitor. That's the Federal Prosecutor's special investigator. Someone leaked the preliminary tax audit papers to the Attorney General's office twenty-four hours early."
I stared at the monitor, a slow, dark realization dawning on me.
May you like
I hadn't leaked the tax papers yet.
Someone else inside the family wants the De la Vegas to burn.
