Chapter 2 - THE GHOST IN THE FAMILY VAULTThirty minutes later, the doors of the San José Hospital emergency bay flew open. A synchronized team of doctors and nurses swarmed the stretcher, wheeling Camila toward the surgical wing in a blur of sterile white coats and rolling stainless steel equipment.
Alejandro tried to follow, but a burly trauma nurse blocked his path with a firm hand on his chest. "Sir, you cannot enter the sterile zone. Wait in the family consultation room down the hall."
"Do you know who I am?" Alejandro snarled, towering over the nurse, his eyes flashing with the terrifying authority of a billionaire accustomed to bending the world to his will. "This is my wife, and that is my child inside her. I go where she goes."
Before the nurse could argue, the hospital director—who had clearly been alerted by the board of directors that their primary benefactor's family was arriving—came jogging down the corridor, breathless and sweating.
"Mr. Villarreal! Please, calm down. We have our absolute best surgical team on this. Dr. Mendoza is performing the emergency C-section right now. Please, follow me to the private suite; you'll have a direct monitor feed."
Alejandro didn't move for a long second, his chest heaving. Then, with a curt nod, he followed the director into a sleek, glass-walled observation suite. But he didn't sit down. He stood directly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the Monterrey skyline, his mind racing at lightspeed.
Six years ago.
The official story was airtight: Don Fernando Villarreal, the ruthless patriarch of the Villarreal cartel-turned-legitimate-industrial-empire, had suffered a catastrophic massive stroke at his private estate in Guadalajara. Alejandro, then just twenty-four and thrust prematurely into the CEO chair, had identified the body. The funeral had been attended by governors, cartel bosses who had gone legit, and international business partners.
Or had he?
Alejandro remembered the closed-casket service. The strict orders from the family lawyers. Due to the toxic nature of his final illness and the embalming process, it is recommended the casket remain sealed. At the time, drowning in grief and overwhelmed by the sudden collapse of his mother and the burden of the billion-peso conglomerate, he hadn't questioned it.
The door to the suite hissed open, and Mateo stepped inside, bringing a rush of cold night air with him. His suit was unbuttoned, and a thin scratch marred his left cheekbone.
"Boss," Mateo said quietly, closing the door behind him.
"Did you get him?" Alejandro demanded, spinning around.
"We boxed the SUV in on the elevated highway near Fundidora Park," Mateo reported, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "Driver tried to ram our barricade. My men pulled him out. But we didn't get answers, Alejandro."
"What do you mean you didn't get answers?"
"The moment we opened the door, he bit down on a cyanide capsule hidden in a false tooth. He was dead before his knees hit the asphalt." Mateo paused, his dark eyes locking onto Alejandro's. "Professional clean-up crew. No ID in his pockets. But we checked the VIN number on the vehicle registration. It was registered under a shell corporation owned by Villarreal Global Holdings—a subsidiary that was supposedly liquidated six years ago."
Alejandro felt the air leave his lungs as if he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. Villarreal Global Holdings was the exact parent company his father had run before his supposed death. It had been buried alongside him.
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"Somebody is still running it," Alejandro whispered, the horror dawning on him like a solar eclipse. "Somebody with access to the highest levels of our family security, our finances, and our history."
Suddenly, a piercing alarm chimed from the medical monitor on the wall, flashing red letters: CRITICAL DROP IN FETAL HEART RATE.
