Chapter 4 - The Paper Trail
By midnight, the private hospital room had been converted into a tactical headquarters.
Prosecutor Santiago Ruiz sat at a small table, reviewing the high-resolution forensic photographs of Valeria’s injuries alongside the chemical analysis of the tea samples Dr. Hernandez had taken from Valeria's bloodwork.
"The blood test confirms high traces of Scopolamine and Benzodiazepines," Santiago said, dropping the medical report onto the table. "Scopolamine causes severe memory impairment, confusion, and passivity. They were drugging her to keep her docile while they inflicted physical harm."
Valeria sat up in bed, a clean white blanket wrapped around her, her color slowly returning. "They wanted me to sign a legal waiver, Santiago. A document stating that my father’s old accounting firm had fabricated all evidence against the Aranda family."
"Where are those original journals your father left you, Valeria?" Alejandro asked, leaning over her bed.
"They're hidden in my old art restoration studio in Coyoacán," Valeria explained. "Behind the canvas of the restored 18th-century archangel painting in the back storage room. I hid them there the day before Marcela locked me in the bedroom."
"Doña Esther’s private security team is probably already searching your studio," Santiago warned. "If they find those journals and burn them, we lose the primary evidence linking your father's death to their financial fraud."
"They won't find them," Alejandro said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. "Because I'm going to get them right now."
"Alejandro, no!" Valeria panicked, grabbing his hand. "Marcela’s driver... he’s dangerous. They have off-duty officers on their payroll. They’ll stop at nothing!"
Alejandro leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips—a deep, protective kiss filled with a promise.
"I was blind for two years, Valeria," he whispered against her skin. "I let them poison your life while I chased contracts and prestige. I am never letting them win again. Trust me."
Alejandro left the hospital flanked by two armored SUVs driven by his private security team.
The rain had turned into a torrential downpour as they navigated the cobblestone streets of historic Coyoacán. The art studio sat tucked away in a quiet alley, its wooden shutters closed tight against the storm.
As Alejandro’s driver pulled up near the alleyway, Alejandro spotted a black Mercedes parked in the shadows near the studio entrance.
Two men in dark coats were using a crowbar to force open the wooden side door.
It was Marcela’s private driver, Hector, along with an off-duty precinct detective Alejandro recognized from his mother’s charity galas.
"Director Aranda," his head of security, a former special forces officer named Commander Vargas, whispered from the front seat. "Do we engage?"
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Alejandro looked at the men breaking into his wife’s sanctuary. The old Alejandro—the polished businessman who settled disputes in air-conditioned boardrooms—died in that bedroom in Las Lomas.
"Secure the perimeter," Alejandro commanded, his voice cold as ice. "And make sure Hector doesn't walk away."
