Chapter 6 - The Uninvited DinnerAt 6:55 PM, the headlights of a black Maserati Quattroporte swept across the gravel driveway of the villa.
Alejandro Ramos stepped out of the vehicle, smoothing the lapels of his midnight-blue Brioni suit. He carried a slim, locked leather attache case in his left hand. His face bore the relaxed, self-satisfied smile of a man who believed he was about to conclude the most lucrative transaction of his career.
Carlos Mendoza opened the front door, his expression an impenetrable mask of formal subservience.
"Good evening, Señor Ramos," Carlos said.
"Good evening, Carlos," Ramos replied cheerfully, handing him his coat. "I see the grounds are looking somewhat neglected. I told Beatriz we’ll hire an industrial maintenance team once the new budget is approved. Is she upstairs?"
"Señora Beatriz is in the grand dining room, señor," Carlos replied smoothly. "The master of the house is waiting."
Ramos stopped mid-stride, his smile faltering for a microsecond. "The master? You mean the notary?"
"Please proceed to the terrace dining room, Señor Ramos."
Ramos adjusted his cuffs, a flicker of unease darting through his eyes, and walked through the marble corridor toward the rear terrace.
The terrace was illuminated by soft candlelight and the distant glow of the Mediterranean under a full moon. A long glass dining table had been laid with fine Limoges porcelain, crystal stemware, and silver cutlery.
Sitting at the head of the table, dressed in a tailored suit, was me.
Sitting to my right, still wearing her white silk robe, with two plainclothes security guards standing directly behind her chair, was Beatriz. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pasty and hollow, looking like a condemned prisoner waiting for the executioner’s drum.
Ramos froze in the doorway, his briefcase slipping an inch in his grasp.
"Mateo," he stammered, the color instantly draining from his face. "You... you're in Dubai."
"The flight from Dubai takes seven hours on my private jet, Alejandro," I said, motioning toward the empty chair directly opposite Beatriz. "Please, sit down. The chef prepared a special dinner to celebrate our new financial arrangements."
Ramos swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet evening air. He looked toward Beatriz, desperate for a cue, but she kept her gaze pinned to the tablecloth, trembling violently.
"I... I wasn't expecting you, Mateo," Ramos said, forcing a weak, artificial smile as he pulled out the chair and sat down. "I came to deliver some routine quarterly portfolio updates to Beatriz in your absence."
"Of course," I said, pouring a vintage Rioja into his glass. "Portfolio updates. Tell me, Alejandro... how is Aura Horizon Ltd. performing in the British Virgin Islands?"
The crystal glass in Ramos’s hand clattered against the table, spilling red wine across the white linen.
"I... I don't know what you're referring to," Ramos choked out.
"Let me refresh your memory," I said, opening a leather folder sitting beside my plate. "On September 18th, you transferred 800,000 euros from my commercial logistics reserve to Aura Horizon. On October 4th, another 1.2 million. And tonight, you brought the forged conservatorship documents to seize the remaining 18 million under the lie that I was dying in an Abu Dhabi clinic."
Ramos lunged to stand up, but a heavy hand slammed down onto his shoulder from behind.
Senior Security Officer Vargas pushed him back down into his seat with effortless authority.
"Open the briefcase, Alejandro," I commanded.
Ramos looked wildly around the terrace, realizing that the exits were blocked, the staff was silent, and the entire property had become an inescapable cage. With trembling hands, he entered the combination on his attache case and opened the lid.
Inside lay the forged notary sheets, the fabricated death-bed certificates, and the pre-signed transfer forms bearing my forged signature.
I looked across the table at Beatriz.
"You told Isabella that I was broke," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that carried more weight than a gunshot. "You told an eight-year-old child that I hated her for being expensive. You locked her in a freezing wine cellar in the dark, you starved her, you made her drag thirty-kilo trash bags across stone with bleeding hands... all for this."
I pointed at the pile of paper inside the briefcase.
"Mateo, please!" Beatriz suddenly shrieked, throwing herself forward against the table, knocking over her silverware. "It was Alejandro! He manipulated me! He told me you were going to leave me with nothing! He planned the whole thing! I was just trying to protect my future!"
Ramos’s eyes flared with rage. "You lying bitch! You came to my office four months ago! You were the one who demanded we lock down the trust before the girl turned nine!"
"Quiet," I said.
Both of them stopped, the terrace returning to a breathless, suffocating silence.
I raised my right hand and tapped twice on the glass tabletop.
The French doors from the living room opened.
Detective Inspector Rafael Vega stepped onto the terrace, flanked by four uniformed officers of the Guardia Civil with tactical vests and service weapons drawn.
"Alejandro Ramos, Beatriz Vance," Inspector Vega announced, his voice booming into the night. "You are under arrest for aggravated child abuse, illegal detention, falsification of public documents, corporate embezzlement, and criminal conspiracy."
As the steel handcuffs clicked around Beatriz’s wrists, she began to scream—a shrill, desperate sound that echoed across the dark waters of the Mediterranean.
May you like
She looked at me, begging, pleading for mercy, for money, for a second chance.
I didn't blink. I didn't speak. I picked up my wine glass, took a single sip, and watched as they dragged both of them away into the flashing blue lights of the courtyard below.
