Chapter 7 - The Eviction Spectacle
The afternoon sun blazed over the residential boulevard of Santa Fe.
Word travels fast in elite high-rise communities. By 4:30 PM, half the residents of our luxury tower were standing on their private balconies or gathered discreetly near the grand circular driveway. Two heavy municipal flatbed tow trucks, a commercial moving van, and three police cruisers were parked directly outside the entrance.
Lorena had not been arrested at the corporate tower—the prosecutor had opted to issue her a formal summons for fraud conspiracy to keep her available for Renata’s custody processing. She had scurried back to the Santa Fe apartment in a panic, desperate to grab whatever valuables she could fit into suitcases before the legal hammer fell.
She didn't get the chance.
When the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor, four uniformed judicial bailiffs were already standing in the hallway, accompanied by a master locksmith equipped with high-powered rotary drills.
"Stop!" Lorena shrieked, running down the corridor, her clothes disheveled. "What are you doing to my home?! You can't be here!"
The chief bailiff, an imposing man with a thick mustache holding a clipboard bound in official government leather, turned to her.
"Are you Lorena Morales?" he asked.
"Yes! And I live here!"
"Not anymore," the bailiff replied flatly. He handed her a certified writ of immediate judicial eviction. "Under Order 402/2024 of the Tenth Civil Court, *Inversiones Torres S.A.* has exercised its legal right of summary repossession. All unauthorized occupants are barred from entry. Any attempt to cross this threshold constitutes criminal trespassing."
*WHIRRRRRR!*
The locksmith’s drill tore through the brass deadbolt of apartment 802. Within seconds, the heavy mahogany door swung open.
Inside the condo, two certified property evaluators were already cataloging every single item.
"Start with the electronics," I said, stepping out of the elevator behind Valeria.
I was wearing a pristine ivory pantsuit, my posture tall, completely unbothered by the spectacle.
Lorena spun around, her eyes bulging with hatred. "Camila! You evil, barren witch! Where is my mother?! Where is Mauricio?! What did you do to them?!"
"Your mother is currently being processed at the Santa Martha Acatitla women’s penitentiary for grand larceny," I answered smoothly, checking my manicure. "And your brother is sitting in a holding cell at the Reclusorio Norte, awaiting his preliminary arraignment for federal bank fraud."
Lorena stumbled back against the wall, slapping a hand over her mouth. "No... no, that's impossible. You're lying!"
"See for yourself," I pointed toward the open doorway.
Two movers walked out of the apartment carrying Mauricio’s prized custom-built gaming tower, the massive curved monitors, and the leather gaming chair.
"Hey! Put that down!" Lorena yelled, darting forward to grab the mover’s arm. "That belongs to Mauricio! That’s his property!"
"Actually," Valeria interjected, stepping between Lorena and the movers, "the purchase invoices for all computer hardware, streaming peripherals, and digital equipment were paid via corporate credit line 4103. They are legally registered commercial assets of *Inversiones Torres S.A.* Mauricio owns nothing in that room except his dirty laundry."
Behind them came another mover, carrying three massive cardboard boxes labeled *CLOTHING - DISPOSAL*. Inside were Mauricio’s designer sneakers, his expensive jerseys, and Graciela’s furs.
"Where are you taking those?!" Lorena sobbed, clutching at the boxes.
"To the Salvation Army depot in Iztapalapa," I said. "Since your family was so concerned about charity when it came to my money, I decided to donate your wardrobe to people who actually have shame."
Doors along the hallway were cracking open. Neighbors—the very same neighbors Graciela had grandstanded for while I was being wheeled out on a stretcher—were peeking out, recording everything on their smartphones, whispering and pointing.
"Look at that," Mrs. Gutierrez from apartment 804 whispered loudly to her husband. "Isn't that the mother-in-law's family? The ones who threw those loud, tacky parties while Camila was dying in the hospital?"
"They’re being evicted!" another neighbor chuckled. "Good riddance. Freeloaders."
Lorena felt the sting of every single gaze. The public humiliation she had so gleefully inflicted on me eleven days ago was now suffocating her like a toxic cloud.
"Renata's things!" Lorena wept, dropping to her knees on the hallway carpet. "At least let me take Renata's toys! Her clothes! Please, Camila, she’s just a little girl!"
I looked down at her. I felt no anger. I felt no triumph. I only felt the clean, crystalline satisfaction of absolute justice.
"Renata’s personal clothes and school books have already been packed into two suitcases waiting with the lobby concierge," I told her, my voice devoid of emotion. "You can take them. But the iPad Pro, the designer watches, and the luxury jewelry you bought with my money remain here. They will be liquidated at public auction to offset the 478,000 pesos your family stole from me."
The locksmith finished installing the heavy, biometric smart-lock on the apartment door. The mechanical bolt clicked into place with a definitive, unyielding *THUNK*.
"The premises are secured, Señora Torres," the chief bailiff announced, handing me the master electronic keycard.
"Thank you, Officer," I said.
I looked down at Lorena, who was curled on the floor, weeping into the carpet.
"You have ten minutes to clear the building, Lorena," I said quietly. "If you are still on the property when the clock hits five, security will have you removed for loitering."
May you like
I turned on my heel, stepped into the private elevator alongside Valeria, and let the brass doors glide shut, cutting off the sound of her pathetic wailing forever.
***
