Chapter 4 - The Collapse of the Syndicate
Beatriz snatched the Montblanc pen from the table with trembling, claw-like fingers. Her face was twisted in a mask of impotent rage as she signed her name across every single line of the divorce and asset forfeiture documents. Each stroke of the pen stripped away her multi-million-euro allowance, her luxury sports cars, her social status, and her access to my financial empire.
"There! It’s done!" she screamed, throwing the pen across the room so hard it shattered against the wall. "Are you happy now, Mateo? You’ve destroyed me!"
"You destroyed yourself the moment you decided to torture a child for pocket money," I said coldly. "Now, get out of my house. You have exactly thirty minutes to pack one single suitcase of basic clothing. No designer items purchased with my money. No jewelry."
"You can't throw me out like a stray dog!"
"Javier," I called out toward the open library door.
Javier stepped into the room immediately, flanked by two towering private security operatives in tactical suits. "Yes, Boss?"
"Escort the former Mrs. Valenti to her quarters. Ensure she packs only basic attire. If she attempts to take so much as a gold ring or a diamond earring, charge her with grand larceny on the spot."
As Beatriz was hauled away, screaming obscenities and hurling hysterical threats that echoed through the marble halls, I turned my attention back to Sofia and Marcos.
"What is the current status of Lorenzo Vega?" I asked.
"Our surveillance team reports he is currently at his primary base of operations—Club Eclipse in Puerto Banús," Javier reported, stepping back into the library after securing Beatriz. "He hasn't heard from her yet. He’s still waiting for the final wire transfer to clear his offshore accounts."
"Good," I said, a dark, dangerous smile touching my lips. "Let’s go pay Mr. Vega a visit. It’s time he learned what happens when you monetize a child's suffering."
Forty minutes later, a convoy of three black armored SUVs pulled up outside Club Eclipse, an exclusive, high-end nightclub co-owned by Vega in the heart of Puerto Banús. Though it was midday and the club was closed to the general public, the service doors were unlocked for cleaning staff.
I walked into the dim, neon-lit establishment, flanked by Javier and two heavy operatives. Lorenzo Vega was sitting in a plush VIP leather booth near the stage, casually counting stacks of cash with his club manager. When he looked up and saw me walking toward him through the shadows, his arrogant, smug smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he desperately tried to regain his composure.
"Mateo Valenti," Lorenzo drawled, leaning back against the leather cushions and adjusting his silk designer shirt. "To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure? I thought you were in Dubai building monuments for oil sheikhs."
"The Dubai project is finished, Lorenzo," I said, stopping directly in front of his booth and resting my hands on the table. "Just like your partnership with my wife."
Lorenzo’s eyes darted nervously toward the exit, but Javier was already blocking the doorway. "I don't know what you're talking about, man. Beatriz and I are just old social acquaintances. If she bought VIP tables here, that’s a civil matter between you two."
"She didn't just buy tables," I said quietly, sitting down uninvited directly across from him. "She laundered 2.8 million euros through your dummy corporation accounts. Money stolen directly from my corporate holdings. Money used to fund your pathetic, parasite lifestyle while my daughter was forced into domestic servitude."
Lorenzo’s cool, playboy persona evaporated instantly. He reached instinctively for his smartphone lying on the table, but my hand shot out like a hydraulic press, clamping down around his wrist in a crushing grip that made him gasp in agonizing pain.
"Listen to me very carefully, Lorenzo," I whispered, leaning across the table until our faces were inches apart. "Beatriz has signed a full legal confession. Her bank records, her encrypted messages, and her wire receipts are already in the hands of the Spanish Tax Fraud Division and the Guardia Civil. By two o'clock this afternoon, an international arrest warrant will be issued for you for felony money laundering and conspiracy."
Lorenzo turned the color of curdled milk. "Wait... Mateo, look, we can talk this out! I didn't know about the kid! I swear! Beatriz told me the girl was fine! I was just helping her move some portfolio funds!"
"You laughed on an intercepted phone recording when she told you Isabella was working as an unpaid maid," I said, my voice dropping into a register of pure, freezing venom. "I heard every word, Lorenzo."
Vega began to sweat profusely, his expensive shirt sticking to his chest. "What... what do you want from me?"
"I want everything," I said simply. "This nightclub, your real estate holdings, your luxury vehicles, your offshore accounts. You are going to sign over every asset you acquired with my money to a secured trust fund dedicated entirely to Isabella’s future. And then, you are going to walk down to the nearest police station and confess."
"And if I refuse?" Lorenzo sneered, trying desperately to dredge up a shred of his old arrogance. "You can't force me to sign away my livelihood at gunpoint!"
"If you refuse," I said, leaning back and signaling Javier with a flick of my wrist, "I won't call the police. I’ll call the violent, unsavory Russian syndicate bosses who backed your club's initial expansion. I’ll tell them you lost nearly three million euros of their stolen capital and brought federal auditors down on their entire money-laundering network. Let's see who reaches you first—a Spanish judge or your creditors."
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Lorenzo’s face went completely ash-gray. He knew as well as I did what happened to financial fixers who brought government scrutiny to organized crime syndicates.
His hands shook uncontrollably as he slid a blank transfer contract toward me. "Give me the pen."
