Chapter 3 - The Clinical Account
The private wing of the ABC Hospital in Santa Fe was completely silent, smelling of high-grade antiseptic, fresh linen, and the quiet, expensive luxury of absolute security. Two of Arturo Salazar’s men stood outside Room 412, their hands folded in front of their dark suits, ignoring the hospital staff who scurried past with lowered heads.
Mariana lay in the center of the mechanical bed, an IV line feeding saline and glucose into the back of her left hand. Her skin was covered in a thick, cool white ointment that smelled of eucalyptus, soothing the fierce, red sunburn that covered her arms and neck.
Arturo sat in the leather armchair beside the window, his iron-gray head leaning against his hand as he watched the digital monitor count her heartbeats.
“Lupita is safe,” Arturo said quietly, breaking the silence without looking away from the screen. “Silva picked her up from the back gate of the Ruiz mansion two hours ago. She has been settled into a small house we own in Coyoacán. Her daughter’s tuition for the private academy has been paid through university.”
Mariana turned her head slowly, the movement no longer painful thanks to the local anesthetics the doctors had rubbed into her neck. “Thank you, Papa. If she hadn't brought the water during the second night... I don't think my kidneys would have made it until your call.”
“You shouldn't have risked it, Mariana,” Arturo said, his voice dropping into that stern, ancient growl he used during board meetings. “When you told me three years ago that you wanted to marry this boy from a fallen family, I warned you. The Ruiz name was built on grand estates that were lost two generations ago. They are ghosts, Mariana. And ghosts are always hungry.”
“I thought he was different,” she whispered, her gray eyes staring up at the white ceiling tiles. “When he met me at that bookstore in Roma, he was working for a small municipal architecture firm. He lived in a shared apartment. He rode the metro. He used to spend his Saturdays drawing parks for children that he knew the city would never fund. He hated his mother's friends. He told me he wanted a simple life.”
“A simple life is easy to want when you have no other options,” Arturo said, standing up and walking to the edge of the bed. He reached down, his large, calloused fingers gently touching the clean white bandage around her wrist. “The moment his mother’s debt caught up with them, the moment his sister’s boyfriend left her with a child and a pile of luxury car leases, the architecture firm didn't matter anymore. He saw your Polanco property as a quick injection of capital. They didn't even want to sell it, Mariana. Silva found the registration files. They were going to use the deed as collateral for a thirty-million-peso loan from a secondary lender in Jalisco.”
Mariana’s jaw tightened beneath the ointment. “A secondary lender? The ones connected to the port authorities in Veracruz?”
“Yes,” Arturo said, his face hardening into an expression of pure, corporate ruthlessness. “The kind of people who don't send lawyers when you miss a payment. They send men with tools. Esteban thought he was saving his sister; he was actually trying to sell your skin to keep himself out of a ditch.”
The door to the room opened with a soft click, and Dr. Cárdenas stepped inside, carrying a thick leather folder. He didn't look at Mariana; he handed the documents straight to Arturo.
“The forensic report is complete, Don Arturo,” the doctor said, his voice low and professional. “Second-degree burns across fourteen percent of the upper torso. Severe dehydration resulting in acute renal strain, though the recovery is proceeding normally thanks to the immediate fluid therapy. The wrist abrasions show deep tissue bruising consistent with commercial nylon rope applied under tension for more than forty-eight hours.”
“Keep the original files off the hospital’s main server, Cárdenas,” Arturo ordered, his fingers already flipping through the color photographs of his daughter's ruined skin. “I want the physical drive delivered to the federal prosecutor’s office in San Ángel by dawn. Tell Prosecutor Merino that this isn't a domestic dispute anymore. This is aggravated kidnapping for financial extortion.”
“Understood, sir,” the doctor said, bowing slightly before backing out of the room like a servant leaving a royal chamber.
May you like
Mariana looked at the folder in her father’s hands. “Merino is a good friend of Doña Elvira’s brother, Papa. He used to attend their Christmas galas in Valle de Bravo.”
Arturo Salazar let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like two stones scraping together. “He was her brother's friend until nine o'clock tonight, Mariana. At ten o'clock, my legal team delivered the ownership logs for Merino’s secondary residence in Ixtapa. It turns out the land was purchased through a shell company that matches our logistics subsidiary. He doesn't work for the Ruiz family anymore, mi amor. He works for his own retirement.”
