Chapter 2 - The Firewood and the Hearth
By 5:00 AM the following morning, the kitchen of the Cárdenas estate was filled with the warm, rich scent of roasting cinnamon, fresh ground coffee beans, and burning oak wood.
Lucía had rekindled the old outdoor wood-burning stove in the courtyard—the very stove Doña Mercedes used to cook on decades ago when the estate was still a modest farm.
Doña Mercedes sat near the hearth, wrapped in a thick wool shawl, watching Lucía move with practiced, deliberate grace. The pale, ghost-like gray in the old woman’s cheeks was slowly giving way to a faint rosy color.
"You move like the women from my home village in Michoacán," Doña Mercedes said, taking a sip of warm atole de zarzamora (blackberry corn pudding) from a small clay cup.
Lucía smiled, turning a fresh corn tortilla over the iron comal. "I grew up in the mountains near Pátzcuaro, Doña Mercedes. My grandmother taught me that food isn't just nourishment for the belly; it's a prayer you make with your hands. When someone tries to poison your food, they aren't just attacking your body—they're trying to break your spirit."
Alejandro entered the courtyard wearing a dark suit, holding a leather briefcase. He looked exhausted, having spent the entire night on the phone with his legal team, private investigators, and state prosecutors.
He paused in the archway, watching his mother eat a warm tortilla smeared with fresh cottage cheese and crushed red chile. The sight brought a tight knot to his throat.
"Good morning, Mama," he said, walking over to kiss her cheek.
"Sit down, Alejandro," Doña Mercedes commanded gently. "You look like a ghost. Lucía, give my son a bowl of soup before he collapses into his spreadsheets."
Lucía handed Alejandro a steaming bowl of traditional bone broth laced with fresh cilantro and lime.
As Alejandro ate, the simplicity and depth of the flavor hit him. For six years, Verónica had insisted on hiring French-trained personal chefs who served cold, artistic plates that left no warmth in the dining room. He had forgotten what real food tasted like.
"I spoke with the district attorney in Querétaro," Alejandro said, setting his spoon down. "A warrant has been issued for Verónica’s arrest on charges of attempted murder, elder abuse, and document forgery. But Rodrigo Santos has deep connections in the local police force. He tipped her off. They fled her apartment in Guadalajara two hours ago."
Doña Mercedes’ eyes narrowed. "Rodrigo Santos... the son of Don Esteban Santos?"
"Yes," Alejandro nodded. "His father lost his land thirty years ago after going bankrupt from gambling."
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Doña Mercedes let out a long, bitter breath. "Don Esteban always believed my late husband, Joaquín, cheated him out of the southern pasture land. This wasn't just about money for Rodrigo and Verónica, Alejandro. This was revenge."
Lucía set a plate of fresh radishes on the table, her sharp gaze fixing on Alejandro. "If they want revenge, Don Alejandro, they won't just run away across the border. People who operate on hate always come back to finish what they started."
