Chapter 6 - The Dismantling of Mendoza & Associates
For ten seconds, the dining room was so quiet you could hear the wax melting off the dinner candles.
Alejandro stared at the paper as if it were written in ancient Sumerian. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his chest heaving beneath his Brioni suit.
"No," he choked out, snatching the paper off the table and bringing it inches from his eyes. "No, this is a forgery! You couldn't... you're just... you're an accountant's daughter! You didn't have this kind of money!"
"An accountant's daughter?" I smiled, walking back to my seat and sitting down calmly. "My father was the chief legal counsel for Varela Holdings before he retired to the board. My grandfather owned the patents to the hydraulic braking systems used in half the commercial freightliners in North America. You thought my family was poor because we lived in a modest home in upstate New York? That house was where my grandfather grew up, Alejandro. We kept it because we respect our roots. Unlike you, who built an entire identity out of borrowed capital and inherited debt."
Elena Sr. slammed her hands down onto the table, rattling the crystal silverware. Her face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom.
"You lying, manipulative little bitch!" she shrieked, standing up so fast her chair screeched loudly against the marble floor. "You trapped my son! You tricked him into marrying you so you could steal our family's dignity!"
"Your dignity?" I laughed, a sharp, cold sound that echoed off the stone walls. "What dignity, Elena? The dignity of living off loans backed by my family's trust? The dignity of hosting charity galas funded by dividends paid out by my grandfather's corporations?"
I turned my gaze to Marcus and Valeria, who looked like they wanted to dissolve into the floorboards.
"And Marcus," I added smoothly, "tell your sister she might want to cancel her shopping trip to Paris tomorrow. The corporate credit cards attached to Mendoza & Associates were deactivated at 12:01 p.m. today. Along with your country club memberships, your yacht lease in Miami, and the mortgage on that vulgar house in the suburbs."
Alejandro let out a sound that was half-sob, half-roar. He lunged across the table, his hands clawing at the edge of the mahogany, his face purple with rage.
"You can't do that!" he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "That's my company! That's my life! I'll sue you! I'll spend every dime I have—!"
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"You don't have a dime, Alejandro," I interrupted, my voice dropping every trace of warmth, turning into pure, unyielding steel. "Every asset you own is tied up as collateral against the Varela trust loans. By tomorrow morning, liquidators will take inventory of your offices, your cars, and your suburban mansion. You are legally, financially, and socially bankrupt."
Alejandro froze. The rage drained out of him in an instant, replaced by a hollow, terrifying realization. He sank slowly back into his chair, his hands trembling violently as he stared down at his empty champagne glass.
