Chapter 5
Chapter 5: The Bloodstained Dent
The crack in the armor of the De la Vega dynasty finally appeared on a Thursday afternoon.
I was in the backyard washing the car when the screech of burning rubber pierced the air. Mauricio’s white sports car tore into the driveway, completely crushing a bed of expensive roses. He kicked the door open and stumbled out. His face was as white as a corpse, his entire body shaking violently. He lacked every ounce of his usual arrogant swagger.
He tripped over a trash can and burst into the kitchen.
"Rosa! Where is my mother?! Is she home?!" he screamed, his voice shrill with terror.
"N-No, young master, the Madam is having lunch at the club until this evening," Rosa stammered, dropping a tray of glasses in shock.
Mauricio tore at his hair, pacing back and forth like a cornered animal. He suddenly noticed me standing by the door.
"Mateo! Come here! Close that damn door!" he ordered, grabbing my arm and yanking me inside.
"What is the matter, young Mauricio? You don't look well," I put on my best facade of a concerned, submissive servant.
"Listen to me, you... you have to take my car to a shop. Right now!" He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick wad of cash, and shoved it against my chest. "Don't take it to the dealership. Take it to some rundown garage in your slum. Pay them triple, ten times if you have to! The front bumper is dented. I want it hammered out and painted brand new before tomorrow morning. No one can know, especially my mother!"
I glanced at the cash, then at his utterly panicked face. "Young Mauricio, what happened to the car?"
"I told you not to ask questions!" he hissed, grabbing me by the collar. "I accidentally hit... a dog... I don't know! Just make it disappear, or I will kill you!"
"Yes, sir. Your secret is safe with me," I bowed my head, taking the keys.
As I approached the sports car, my heart pounded against my ribs. I started the engine and slowly drove it out of the estate. I didn't go to a shop immediately. I drove to an abandoned industrial park near the train tracks, parked, and stepped out to inspect the damage.
The dent on the front bumper was obvious. The white paint was scraped away. But the thing that sent a chill down my spine was wedged tightly between the headlight casing and the fender.
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It was a strip of fabric. Navy blue, rough cotton—the exact material used for public elementary school uniforms in Nuevo León. And right beneath it, smeared against the pristine white paint, were streaks of dark, drying blood.
Mauricio hadn't hit a dog. He had hit a child. And instead of stopping to help, he had run.
