Chapter 5 - The Safe
Alejandro’s office was a monument to his own ego. Leather-bound books on culinary arts lined the shelves, interspersed with framed photographs of him shaking hands with local mayors and food critics. Behind his massive cherry-wood desk sat a high-backed leather executive chair, facing away from us toward the window overlooking the dark street below.
We could hear his voice murmuring into a wireless headset.
“...just route the remaining catering deposits through the secondary shell account in Delaware. The auditors won’t look there until next quarter. I don't care what the injunction says; my name is still on the corporate charter.”
My blood boiled. Even with a federal protective order hanging over his head, he was actively planning how to commit corporate fraud and hide money from the courts.
Mariana crept toward the corner of the room, behind a tall ficus plant where the heavy wall safe was concealed behind a sliding panel of wood veneer.
She knelt on the plush carpet, her fingers hovering over the digital keypad.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
She entered the numbers: April 14th—his mother’s birthday.
The small LED screen flashed red: ERROR.
Mariana’s breath caught. She looked back at me, terror flooding her eyes. She tried again. May 2nd. Red light. ERROR.
On the third failed attempt, the safe would lock down for twenty-four hours and trigger a silent alarm at the local security dispatch.
“Think, Mariana,” I mouthed silently, stepping closer to shield her from view with my own body. “What else would he use? What date is sacred to a narcissist?”
She closed her eyes, pressing her palms against her temples. “His restaurant’s grand opening date? No, we tried that. His own birthday? No...”
Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. She typed a final sequence of numbers with frantic speed.
0-9-1-2-1-8.
The date her own design studio had been forcibly closed and absorbed into Raíces. The day he took her independence away.
Click.
The heavy steel door of the safe swung open with a soft, pneumatic sigh.
Inside sat a stack of thick manila folders, a velvet jewelry box, and two black Moleskine notebooks.
Mariana didn't hesitate. She grabbed the topmost folder labeled “Raíces & Partner Holdings - Confidential” and cracked it open. The pages inside were filled with original partnership contracts, financial balance sheets, and—most importantly—the forged signature pages where Alejandro had signed her name to high-risk commercial loans without her knowledge or consent.
Then she pulled out one of the Moleskine notebooks and flipped it open.
Her face went entirely white.
“What is it?” I whispered, leaning over her shoulder.
It wasn't a financial ledger. It was a journal. Written in Alejandro’s neat, arrogant handwriting were detailed, day-by-day entries documenting his psychological campaign against Mariana.
“June 4: She cried when I told her she couldn't see her mother today. Good. Control is like training a hound; you have to starve their old attachments before they obey.”“August 12: Made her scrub the kitchen floor by hand tonight because she ruined the risotto presentation. She thinks she’s an artist; I’ll remind her she’s just labor.”
My hands curled into tight fists. Every maternal instinct in my body screamed for me to tear the office apart, to smash his desk, to make him pay for every single word written in that vile book.
“Take the whole binder, the notebooks, and the digital backup drive sitting in the corner slot,” I whispered fiercely, my voice vibrating with controlled fury. “We’re taking everything.”
We packed the documents into Mariana’s canvas backpack with trembling efficiency.
May you like
Just as Mariana reached for the final folder, Alejandro’s voice cut through the room like a razor blade.
“Looking for your inheritance, darling?”
