Chapter 12
That evening, I sat in the dim light of my mother’s study, nursing a glass of dark rum while the heavy sting of the burn on my hand pulsed a steady, painful rhythm. I had desperately wanted to shield her from the escalating violence, to pretend the fire at the site was just a random act of vandalism, but my mother was far too perceptive. She had survived a near-fatal assassination attempt by the Mendozas; she knew the unmistakable scent of orchestrated intimidation.
She walked into the study, leaning heavily on her cane, and sat in the leather armchair opposite my desk. She didn't ask about my bandaged hand. Instead, she placed a small, incredibly old, and heavily weathered key on the desk between us. The brass was tarnished, completely devoid of any identifying markings.
"I hoped I would never have to give this to you, Alejandro," she said, her voice carrying a profound, haunting sadness that made my chest tighten. "When we finally defeated the Mendozas and secured the land, I thought the past was truly buried. But the fire today... Karina's cryptic warnings about a man in a government office... it confirms a suspicion I have carried silently for twenty-two years."
"What is this key, Mama?" I asked, picking up the cold piece of metal.
"It belongs to a private, highly secure lockbox at the old Banco de la República downtown," she explained, her eyes staring blankly at the wall, lost in painful memories. "Your father gave it to me three days before he was murdered. He told me that if anything ever happened to him, I was to hide the key and never look for the box unless the men who killed him came back to finish the job."
I stared at her in shock. "You knew the Mendozas didn't act alone? Why didn't you tell me during the trial?"
"Because your father didn't just fear the cartel, Alejandro. He feared the man who protected them," she said, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "Before your father bought the Coyoacán property, he was close friends with a young, ambitious lawyer who was obsessed with urban development and gentrification. That lawyer eventually realized that buying land legally was too slow, so he allied himself with the Mendoza cartel to aggressively force people out of their homes. Your father found out and threatened to expose him. That was why your father had to die."
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"Who was the lawyer, Mama?" I asked, a cold dread washing over my entire body.
"His name is Senator Roberto Vargas," she replied, a tear finally escaping her eye. "He is one of the most powerful political figures in the country today. And he is the man trying to steal your father's legacy."
