Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD ON THE COFFEE CAN
The rooftop room Doña Carmen had helped Mateo build was quiet. Unbearably quiet.
The walls were still painted bright, cheerful blue. On the small wooden bed sat the brand-new dinosaur sheets Mateo had spent weeks searching for at the flea market. Beside the pillow rested the faded, worn teddy bear Santiago had left behind six years ago.
Mateo sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. They were bruised and raw from the handcuffs.
He had spent twenty-four hours in a holding cell before his public defender managed to get him released on bail, proving that the photo had been taken out of context—he was merely an unwitting worker caught on camera, not a cartel member. But the damage was done. The legal process to overturn the judge's emergency order would take months. Months he didn't have.
Clang.
The metal door to the rooftop opened. Doña Carmen stepped out, holding a bowl of warm broth. Her old eyes were filled with sorrow.
"Eat something, miijo," she pleaded softly. "You haven't touched food or water since yesterday."
"They took him, Doña Carmen," Mateo whispered, his voice completely dead, hollowed out by grief. "I worked for six years. I didn't go to parties. I didn't buy new clothes. I ate bread and salt so I could buy him that bed. And she just... walked in and bought him with a lie."
"God sees everything, Mateo," the old woman said, placing a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. "Truth will come to the light."
"Truth doesn't matter in a courtroom when you're poor!" Mateo suddenly snapped, slamming his fist against the wooden bed frame. "Money wins! Lies win!"
He stood up, walked over to the corner, and picked up the rusty coffee can. He dumped its contents onto the bed. Wrinkled 20-peso bills, coins he had scraped from under car seats, tips from 14-hour shifts under the blazing sun. It was everything he had in the world: 32,000 pesos. A fortune for a teenager in the slums; nothing to a woman with a millionaire husband.
"I need to know why," Mateo muttered, his eyes suddenly burning with a dangerous, dark desperation. "She didn't want us when we were starving. Why would she come back now? Why pay a lawyer tens of thousands of dollars to take a boy she abandoned?"
He remembered the look in her eyes. It wasn't love. It wasn't even guilt. It was greed.
Mateo grabbed his jacket.
"Where are you going?" Doña Carmen asked, panicked.
"To find the truth."
Two hours later, Mateo was standing outside a luxury high-rise apartment building in the wealthy neighborhood of Polanco. The glass towers stood in stark contrast to the crumbling concrete of his own neighborhood.
He hid in the shadows across the street, watching the main entrance. At 7:00 PM, a sleek black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the curb.
The valet opened the door. Elena stepped out, wearing a fur coat and diamond earrings. Behind her came her new husband, Arthur Vance—a tall, arrogant man with cold grey eyes. And finally, Santiago stepped out.
Santiago looked like a ghost. He was wearing expensive clothes that didn't fit his small, slumped shoulders. He wasn't looking at the glittering lights of the city. He was looking at the ground.
Mateo felt an overwhelming urge to run across the street and grab his brother, but he forced himself to stay hidden. If he got arrested again, Santiago would be lost forever.
He watched as Elena shoved Santiago roughly by the shoulder toward the building's lobby. "Move faster, you useless little brat!" she hissed, her voice dropping the fake maternal softness she had used in court. "Stop crying! You're ruining my mood!"
"Leave him alone, Elena," Arthur Vance said, his voice cold and transactional. "Just make sure he's ready for the medical appointment on Tuesday. Dr. Miller flies in from Houston at eight."
"Don't worry, Arthur," Elena sneered. "He's not going anywhere."
Mateo’s blood ran cold in his veins.
Medical appointment? Dr. Miller?
Santiago wasn't sick. He had a clean bill of health from the foster system. Why would a private doctor fly in from Texas to see an eight-year-old boy two days after an emergency custody hearing?
Mateo backed into the alley, his brain racing. Something far more sinister than a mother’s return was happening.
He pulled out his cheap, cracked smartphone and dialed the only person who might be able to help him dig into the shadows: Tavo, a childhood friend who had turned to black-hat hacking and street intelligence after dropping out of school.
"Tavo," Mateo said, his voice shaking. "I need you to look up a name."
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"Mateo? Bro, I heard what happened at the court. I'm so sorry—"
"No time for that," Mateo interrupted, his voice dropping to a icy whisper. "Look up Arthur Vance. And find out why he needs my little brother."
