Chapter 2 - Ghosts of Coyoacán
The heavy oak doors of the boardroom remained closed for what felt like an eternity.
Mateo did not move away from my chair. I could feel the heat radiating from his broad shoulders, smelling the faint, expensive scent of cedarwood and amber mixed with the metallic chill of air conditioning. He was no longer the thin, hollow-eyed seventeen-year-old boy who used to share stale sweet bread with me on the edge of the rooftop stairs. He was a predator who had spent fifteen years sharpening his claws in the ruthless jungles of global finance.
“Look at me, Valentina,” he commanded softly.
I turned my head slowly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. Up close, the dark circles under his eyes and the slight white scar slicing through his left eyebrow told a story of survival that no corporate profile could ever capture.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “did you ever look for me?”
The question hit me like a physical blow.
“Every single day,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “After you disappeared, my father locked me in the house for a week. When I finally went back down to the courtyard, your room had already been cleared out by the landlord. When I asked about you, my father threatened to send me to a boarding school in Europe if I ever spoke your name again. I spent years checking passenger manifests, searching university registries online, hoping... praying you hadn't really hated me.”
Mateo let out a dry, chilling laugh.
“Hated you?” He straightened up, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, staring out at the sprawling expanse of Santa Fe’s corporate towers. “You were the only good thing in that miserable neighborhood, Valentina. Do you think I could hate you for what your parents did? No. But I hated myself for being weak. I hated myself for being poor. And above all, I swore an oath in the back of a municipal police car while your father watched me get dragged away with bruised ribs: I swore that one day, I would return with enough power to buy every brick of his life and tear it down to the dirt.”
I stood up from my chair, my legs trembling beneath my pencil skirt.
“If you want revenge, take it out on my father!” I said, my voice rising as the injustice of it all flared inside my chest. “Take our house! Take our cars! Take every last cent my family ever stole or borrowed! But don't pretend I had a choice in what happened. I was seven years old when you left, Mateo. And I’ve spent the last fifteen years paying for sins I didn't commit.”
Mateo turned around slowly. His eyes narrowed, studying me with an intensity that felt like a laser cutting through glass.
“Is that so?” he asked quietly. “You think you’re innocent?”
“I am innocent of framing you!”
“Maybe,” Mateo conceded, taking a step toward me. “But you carry the name Roberto. You carry the blood of the people who destroyed my youth. And right now, you are standing in my company, begging for a position so your father can maintain his country club membership while his creditors circle like vultures.”
“I’m not begging for him!” I shot back, hot tears finally spilling over my lashes. “I’m trying to save my mother from losing the medical care she needs for her heart condition! My father is a monster, yes—I know that now better than anyone! But my mother didn't know about the police frame-up until it was too late, and she’s dying in that empty mansion while my father drinks away whatever is left of our name!”
The mention of my mother seemed to strike a nerve. Mateo’s expression flickered—just for a fraction of a second—before the iron curtain dropped back down over his features.
“Your mother,” he repeated flatly. “Doña Carmen. The same woman who watched me bleed in the courtyard and told me to clean my blood off her pristine tiles before I stained them.”
I couldn't answer. I couldn't defend her, because it was true. In Coyoacán, my parents had treated human beings like disposable refuse, measuring worth by bank accounts and family crests.
Mateo walked past me, stopping at the edge of the conference table. He picked up the red folder, closed it with a sharp snap, and slid it back across the wood toward me.
“Take the folder, Valentina,” he said coldly.
I looked down at the red cardboard. “What is this?”
“That is your father’s financial death warrant,” Mateo said without looking at me. “Every hidden loan, every fraudulent offshore transfer, every predatory mortgage he signed over the last five years to keep up his illusion of wealth—it’s all documented inside. His empire collapses at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow when the federal banking commission receives these files.”
My breath hitched. “Mateo, no—if you do that, my family will go to prison. My father... he’ll destroy himself.”
“Let him,” Mateo replied, his voice like winter wind. “He destroyed me when I was seventeen. Now it’s my turn.”
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He turned his back to me, looking back out toward the city skyline.
“The interview is over, Valentina. Get out of my building.”
