Chapter 12 - The Syndicate's Ledger
The maximum-security annex was colder, darker, and populated by men whose crimes made white-collar embezzlement look like playground mischief. David was shoved into a small, windowless interrogation room lit only by a buzzing fluorescent tube overhead.
Sitting at the metal table was not a federal prosecutor, but a man wearing a crisp, bespoke charcoal suit that looked completely out of place in a federal penitentiary. He was middle-aged, with slicked-back dark hair and a cold, calculating smile.
"David Medina," the man said smoothly, sliding a manila folder across the table. "You've certainly made a mess of things, haven't you?"
"Who are you?" David stammered, backing away until his spine hit the concrete wall. "I don't have any money left. Everything is frozen."
"I know," the man replied, leaning back and lacing his fingers together. "My name is Don Lorenzo. And I’m not here for your money, David. I’m here for what's left of your discretion."
David’s throat went bone dry. He had heard that name whispered in the industrial corridors of Querétaro—a shadow figure controlling half the contraband and black-market logistics networks in the state.
"I didn't mean to cross your organization," David whispered, trembling. "It was just supposed to be a side hustle with Claudia... funneling small commercial rents through San Lucas Holdings."
"A side hustle that has now drawn the direct attention of federal tax auditors and a very vindictive ex-wife," Lorenzo’s voice dropped an octave, turning razor-sharp. "Your wife, Mariana, accidentally inherited a digital ledger when she audited those commercial accounts—a ledger that contains transaction hashes linking my syndicate directly to your shell company. If she hands that data over to the federal magistrate next Monday, my entire regional operation goes down."
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"What do you want me to do?" David asked, a sickening knot forming in his stomach. "I'm locked in here!"
"You're going to make a phone call," Lorenzo said, sliding a burner phone across the metal table. "You are going to call your daughter, or your wife, and convince them to meet you for a 'reconciliation' at the old industrial warehouse by the highway. And once they arrive... we'll retrieve our ledger ourselves."
