Chapter 7 - The Political Execution
Diego Garza’s face turned from white to a dangerous, mottled purple. The veneer of the polished, charismatic politician vanished entirely, replaced by a cornered, desperate animal.
“You can’t do this!” Diego roared, lunging forward before Andrés stepped smoothly into his path, his hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket. “I am a sitting congressman! I have powerful friends in the judicial committee! If you try to execute this foreclosure, I will bury you in retaliatory lawsuits, tax audits, and regulatory investigations that will destroy your husband’s firm!”
I didn’t flinch. I simply pulled a second, thinner manila folder out from under my arm and laid it gently on top of the ledger.
“Go ahead, Diego,” I invited softly. “Call your friends on the judicial committee. Tell them you want to investigate Andrés’s investment firm. But before you pick up your phone, you might want to look at what’s inside this second folder.”
Diego hesitated, his hand hovering in the air. He slowly lowered his arm, picked up the folder, and opened it.
Inside were bank account numbers from the Caymans, encrypted email chains, and signed shell-company transfer receipts linking Diego’s secret political slush fund directly to municipal construction kickbacks and embezzlement schemes.
“Where... where did you get this?” Diego whispered, his voice dropping to a terrified squeak.
“Andrés’s firm handles institutional compliance auditing for international banking regulators,” I said, stepping closer to him until I was looking straight into his wide, panicked eyes. “When you tried to pressure my husband’s bank last year for an illegal real estate loan, Andrés ran a routine background check on your campaign finances. It took his forensic team less than forty-eight hours to map out your entire corruption network.”
Paulina stared at her husband in absolute horror. “Diego... what is this? What did you do?”
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“Shut up, Paulina!” Diego screamed, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked back at me, his hands shaking so violently he dropped the folder onto the floor. “Mara... please. Let’s be reasonable. We’re family! We can make a deal! Name your terms! Do you want the estate signed over to you officially? Done! Do you want public apologies? I’ll go on television tomorrow and beg your forgiveness!”
“There are no deals left, Diego,” I said, turning my back on them and walking toward the window where the rain was still pouring down over the garden. “The evidence of your embezzlement was automatically transmitted to the federal prosecutor’s office and three major investigative newspapers thirty minutes ago. By tomorrow morning, your political career will be officially dead.”
