Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Ledger
By Thursday morning, the news of the "Las Lomas Miracle"—as the tabloids had dubbed it—dominated every front page in Mexico.
Photos of Diego holding Valentina while walking beside Marisol were broadcast across national television networks. Stock in Villaseñor Real Estate had fluctuated wildly on Wednesday evening, but by Thursday morning, public sympathy and corporate approval had driven the stock value to an all-time high.
Inside the quiet sanctuary of the Villaseñor mansion, however, a darker truth was beginning to emerge.
Diego sat in his private study behind the grand mahogany desk, a cold cup of black coffee resting beside a stack of old leather-bound ledgers and printed email archives dating back four years.
Beside him stood Mateo and David Sloan, a sharp senior investigator Diego had hired from a private firm in Chicago.
"We ran the full forensic audit on the domestic staff agency that placed Marisol in this house four years ago, Mr. Villaseñor," David Sloan said, tapping a tablet screen. "It wasn't a coincidence."
Diego’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Marisol applied for domestic work through a legitimate agency in Tepito," Sloan explained. "But her application was flagged by an internal algorithm owned by a subsidiary firm. That subsidiary firm is registered to an offshore account in Panama."
Diego leaned forward, his hands lacing together on the desk. "Who owns the Panama account?"
"It took us six hours to breach the shell company's structure," Sloan replied, sliding a printed document across the mahogany desk. "The beneficial owner isn't Senator Robles. It’s your late business partner’s brother—Gonzalo Vega."
Diego felt a sudden cold chill run down his spine.
Gonzalo Vega was the vice-president of Villaseñor Construction. He was a man Diego had trusted for a decade—a man who sat on his board of directors and attended family dinners.
"Gonzalo?" Diego murmured, his voice laced with disbelief. "Why would Gonzalo care about a maid in Tepito?"
"Because four years ago, when your father passed away, his will contained a specific clause," Sloan said, pulling out a dusty legal document from a red folder. "If you died or resigned without a direct biological heir, forty percent of the voting shares in Villaseñor Real Estate would automatically transfer to the vice-president—Gonzalo Vega."
Diego froze. The terrifying mosaic began to assemble itself in his mind.
"Gonzalo knew Marisol was pregnant," Diego whispered, the blood draining from his face. "He knew about Jalisco."
"Precisely," Sloan nodded grimly. "Gonzalo paid Sandra, your father’s old secretary, to intercept Marisol’s phone calls four years ago. Then, when he realized Marisol was living in poverty with the child, he didn't kill them—he did something far more sinister. He arranged for her to be hired in your mansion as an invisible maid."
"Why?" Diego demanded, his voice cracking with rising fury. "Why put her under my own roof?"
"Insurance," Sloan replied cold-bloodedly. "He kept her close so he could control her. If you ever got married to Paulina Robles and produced an heir with her, Gonzalo would have lost his chance at the company forever. He was waiting for the right moment to frame Marisol for theft, have her arrested, and ensure your child was sent to a state orphanage where she could never claim her inheritance."
Diego stood up so fast his heavy leather chair slammed into the bookshelf behind him.
The horror of what had almost happened made his vision turn red. If Paulina had thrown Marisol and Valentina out into the street on Tuesday morning, Gonzalo’s agents would have been waiting at the gate to plant stolen jewelry in Marisol’s bags, call the police, and strip his daughter away forever.
"Where is Gonzalo right now?" Diego asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"He’s at the Santa Fe corporate headquarters," Mateo answered, stepping forward. "He called an emergency meeting of the board for eleven o'clock today, claiming you are mentally unfit to serve as CEO due to the public scandal."
Diego pulled his gold pocket watch from his vest, checking the time.
It was 10:15 AM.
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Diego adjusted his cuffs, his face hardening into a terrifying mask of absolute vengeance.
"Mateo," Diego said softly. "Call the federal prosecutors. Tell them we have the wire fraud logs and the Panama account records. And tell them to meet me in the boardroom on the forty-second floor."
