Chapter 5 - Confrontation in Shadows
By seven-thirty in the morning, the rain had turned into a torrential downpour, beating against the gothic stone facade of the Del Valle villa like a barrage of pebbles.
I slipped back through the vineyard tunnel and entered the house through the cellar entrance. The grand salon was already filled with floral arrangements—hundreds of white lilies and black baccara roses, sending a cloying, sickly perfume through the cold air. Catering staff moved silently, setting out silver trays of coffee and pastries for the dignitaries expected to arrive before the procession.
I climbed the sweeping marble staircase, stepping lightly. As I reached the upper landing, voices drifted from behind the heavy mahogany doors of my mother’s private sitting room.
I flattened myself against the wall, listening through the crack between the carved double doors.
"Where the hell is it, Rodrigo?" Teresa’s voice was a venomous whisper, stripped of all her usual aristocratic poise.
"I told you, I don't know!" Rodrigo sounded unhinged, his voice cracking with panic. "I had both cufflinks when I went into her room yesterday! When Varga and I carried her out to the service van, the right one was missing! I’ve searched my car, my bedroom, the floor of the greenhouse—it’s gone!"
"You fool," Teresa spat, the sound of a crystal tumbler slamming onto a glass tabletop echoing through the room. "If you dropped it in that bedroom, the police could find it during a routine check!"
"There won't be a police check!" Rodrigo hissed defensively. "Varga signed the papers! Chief Morales personally stamped the burial authorization at dawn! The hearse is already at the cemetery chapel. The furnace is preheated. At ten o'clock sharp, the coffin goes into the flames. Once the ashes are in the urn, nobody can prove a damn thing!"
"And Julián?" Teresa asked, her tone dropping into a chilling register. "Have you seen him this morning?"
"His bedroom door is still locked. The maid said she heard water running in his bathroom an hour ago. He’s probably drugged himself with sedatives. The boy is useless, Mother. He always has been. He doesn't suspect a thing."
"Do not underestimate him," Teresa warned sharply. "He has his father’s blood. Soft on the outside, but dangerous when backed into a corner. Go down to the guest suite. Knock on his door. Tell him the motorcade leaves in forty-five minutes. If he refuses to come out, use the master key. I want him beside that casket, holding my hand for the press cameras, looking like a shattered widower until the final papers are filed."
Footsteps approached the door.
I moved silently down the hallway, slipped into the guest suite, threw off my damp jacket, and sat on the edge of the bed just as the heavy brass knocker sounded twice.
The door swung open without waiting for my permission. Rodrigo stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a bespoke black mourning suit, his silk tie knotted perfectly. But beneath his polished exterior, his skin was sallow, and beads of cold sweat glistened along his hairline. On his left wrist, a silver cufflink gleamed under the hallway chandelier.
His right wrist was bare. The french cuff was awkwardly pinned shut with a generic brass safety pin tucked underneath the fabric.
I looked up at him, letting my eyes appear vacant, red-rimmed, and lifeless.
"It’s time, Julián," Rodrigo said, his voice adopting a practiced, synthetic sympathy. "The cars are arriving. Mother wants us downstairs. You need to pull yourself together for Camila’s sake."
"Is she at the chapel already?" I asked, my voice deliberately shaking, sounding hollow and broken.
"Yes. She’s resting in the family vault," he said, stepping into the room and placing a hand on my shoulder. I could feel the tension in his fingers, the tremor of adrenaline running through him. "The morticians finished preparing her. The service will be brief. Just family, close friends, and the board. We need to let her go, brother. We need to end this nightmare."
I looked down at his right hand, noticing a thin, jagged scratch across his knuckles, barely concealed beneath cosmetic concealer.
"Did you hurt your hand, Rodrigo?" I asked quietly, looking directly at the red mark.
Rodrigo flinched, instinctively pulling his hand back and jamming it into his trouser pocket. "Just... an accident in the cellar yesterday. Moving wine crates. Come on. Mother is waiting."
I stood up slowly, smoothing the lapels of my dark coat. "You’re right. We need to end this nightmare today."
As I walked past him into the hallway, I brushed against his arm, leaning in close enough for him to catch the scent of rain and damp earth on my skin.
"By the way, Rodrigo," I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on the staircase ahead.
He stopped, turning pale eyes toward me. "What?"
"Make sure you look closely at Camila's right hand before they close the lid," I said, my voice deadpan, chillingly calm. "She was holding something when she died. Something that belonged to someone she hated."
Rodrigo froze on the landing. The color drained from his face until he looked more like a corpse than the woman lying in the mortuary chapel. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
May you like
I didn't wait for his response. I walked down the marble stairs, straight toward the front doors where my mother stood waiting, completely unaware that the executioner's blade had already been sharpened.
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