Chapter 4 - The Audit and the Aftermath
By Tuesday afternoon, the corporate restructuring of Santillán Holdings was proceeding with surgical precision.
Mr. Santamaría sat across from me in my study, placing three thick folders on the desk. His expression was one of quiet satisfaction.
“The asset transfers from Constructora Fuentes have been successfully consolidated into our holding accounts, Don Arturo,” Santamaría reported, opening the first folder to reveal a series of certified deeds and bank statements. “Querétaro municipal authorities have formally seized all heavy machinery belonging to Rogelio Fuentes. Furthermore, the tax authority has initiated a comprehensive audit of his personal offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.”
“And what about Valeria and her mother?” I asked, leaning back in my leather chair.
Santamaría adjusted his glasses, a faint, dry smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Señora Fuentes and her daughter attempted to check into a mid-tier hotel in Zona Rosa yesterday, but their credit cards were flagged by the banking consortium due to the ongoing fraud investigation. They are currently staying at a relative’s cramped apartment in the northern outskirts of the city. No luxury cars, no designer bags, no private security.”
“And Emiliano?”
“He visited our corporate offices on Reforma this morning,” Santamaría said, his tone softening with a hint of pity. “He tried to get past the security desk in the lobby to see you.”
“And?”
“Security escorted him out per your standing instructions, sir. He waited in the rain outside the revolving doors for nearly two hours before walking away.”
I looked out the window toward the garden, where the jacaranda trees were swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. It was a harsh lesson, but some men are born with skulls so thick that only a total collapse can let the light in. Whether Emiliano would use that light to rebuild his character or let bitterness consume him was entirely his choice now. My job as a father had ended the moment he handed his mother’s dignity over to a social climber for the sake of a smooth wedding photo.
“Thank you, Santamaría,” I said, standing up and buttoning my suit jacket. “Keep me updated if the federal prosecutors need any additional documentation from our side.”
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“Understood, Don Arturo. Have a good afternoon.”
As Santamaría left the study, the heavy oak door clicked shut behind him. I walked over to the bay window, watching the gray clouds part over the valley of Mexico, letting a warm, golden shaft of sunlight spill across the polished hardwood floor.
