Chapter 3 - THE INVENTORY OF SINSThe ballroom was suffocating. The air conditioner had been shut off, replaced by a sterile, pressurized ventilation system that smelled faintly of ozone and impending doom. On the giant screen, financial documents exposed the horrific extent of the Ferrer family's empire—built on extortion, tax evasion, and political assassinations.
"This is a digital fabrication!" a senior partner from a top-tier law firm screamed, stepping forward with a trembling finger pointed at the screen. "You can't use illegally obtained data in a court of law! This is extortion! Piracy!"
Valeria laughed—a short, dry sound lacking any trace of warmth.
"Court of law?" Valeria tilted her head, her eyes locking onto the frantic lawyer. "Dear counselor, look around you. Do you see a judge? Do you see a jury? The only judge in this room is currently uploading every single one of your tax havens to the global public domain. By morning, your assets won't just be frozen—they’ll be incinerated."
The lawyer’s knees buckled. He collapsed onto the marble floor, burying his face in his hands as his corporate phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket—thousands of automated alerts notifying him of massive margin calls, frozen accounts, and sudden resignations from his board of directors.
Nicolás refused to accept defeat. Pushing himself off the steel door, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated malice. He reached inside his tailored tuxedo jacket, his hand darting toward a concealed holster.
"You psychotic bitch," Nicolás snarled, pulling out a sleek, custom-engraved Walther PPK pistol. "You should have stayed dead with the rest of your family!"
Before he could even level the barrel, a blinding green laser dot materialized directly between his eyes.
CLACK.
High above, one of the smart-turrets primed its firing mechanism. The metallic lock-on sound was deafening in the dead silence.
"Move one inch, Nicolás," Valeria said softly, taking a leisurely step closer to him, "and the only thing left of your head will be a stain on this expensive rug."
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Nicolás froze. Sweat dripped down the bridge of his nose, catching the crimson light of the emergency lamps. His fingers trembled, the heavy steel of the gun suddenly feeling useless in his grasp. Slowly, agonizingly, he let the weapon slip from his fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
"That's much better," Valeria murmured. She bent down, picked up the gun with two fingers, and slipped it into the pocket of her evening dress. "Now, let's talk about the slap."
