Chapter 4 - MIDNIGHT VISITORS
At 2:00 a.m., San Pedro Garza García was dead silent. The rain had begun to drum a steady, heavy beat against the bulletproof windows of the mansion.
Héctor walked out of his office, moving through the cavernous hallways like a ghost. He checked on the twins in their bedroom. They were sleeping peacefully in their beds, their breathing slow and natural, free of chemical poison for the first time in months. He kissed each of their foreheads, whispering, “Forgive me, my boys. Dad is going to fix this.”
He packed a small leather briefcase with three specific items:
The encrypted hard drive containing all sixteen camera angles of the past month, duplicated three times.
The original medical prescription records and pharmacy logs he had hacked into through his corporate IT security team.
A certified cashier’s check drawn from his personal holding account for five million pesos, made out to Rosalía.
Then, he walked out to his garage, bypassed his armored SUV, and climbed into an unmarked utility pickup truck.
Thirty minutes later, he was standing outside the temporary holding facility in downtown Monterrey where Rosalía was being detained pending her arraignment hearing scheduled for Monday morning.
Thanks to his wealth and influence, a midnight phone call to the state attorney general—a man who owed his political career to Héctor’s real estate developments—was all it took to bypass the visiting restrictions.
A weary, sleep-deprived guard led Héctor down a sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor to a small, windowless interview room.
The door creaked open.
Rosalía sat at the metal table wearing a gray prison jumpsuit that swallowed her small frame. Her eyes were red and swollen from hours of crying, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. When she looked up and saw Héctor standing in the doorway, she shrank back against the concrete wall, her hands trembling.
“Don Héctor… what are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Did… did you come to tell me the boys are asking for me?”
Héctor didn't answer right away. He walked slowly across the room, pulled out the metal chair opposite her, and sat down.
Then, to the absolute shock of the guard standing by the door, the billionaire real estate magnate reached across the table, took Rosalía’s rough, work-worn hands in his, and bowed his head.
“I came to ask for your forgiveness, Rosalía,” Héctor said, his voice breaking with raw, unvarnished emotion.
Rosalía blinked, tears spilling over her lashes. “Forgiveness? Don Héctor, you didn't do anything wrong… it was your wife—”
“It was my house,” Héctor interrupted firmly, looking straight into her eyes. “It was my responsibility to protect the people under my roof. And I failed you. I failed my sons.”
He reached into his briefcase, pulled out the cashier’s check, and slid it across the table.
Rosalía glanced down at the paper, gasped, and instantly pushed it away as if it were burning hot. “No! Don Héctor, what is this? I don't want your money! I only care about Santi and Mati!”
“That is not hush money, Rosalía. That is restitution,” Héctor said steadily. “And it’s only the beginning. Tomorrow morning, before the sun comes up, those charges against you will be dropped with prejudice. You will be released like a queen, with a full public apology from the state prosecutor's office.”
Rosalía stared at him, bewildered. “How… how is that possible? Your wife has the police in her pocket, she has her high-society friends—”
Héctor let out a dark, humorless chuckle.
“My wife,” Héctor said softly, “made one fatal mistake.”
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“What mistake?”
“She thought she was the only one watching the cameras.” Héctor stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “Get some rest, Rosalía. Tomorrow afternoon, you are coming back home. And the person leaving this house in handcuffs won't be you.”
