Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Trap
At exactly 8:59 a.m. on Wednesday, I walked through the security turnstiles of Grupo Corporativo Azteca.
I wasn't wearing my interview suit anymore. I wore a sharp, charcoal-gray pantsuit that felt like armor. My hair was pulled back into a sleek, flawless ponytail, and my expression was as cold and impassive as stone.
The security guards didn't stop me. In fact, the head of lobby security bowed slightly as I approached the private elevator bank, swiping a master-coded visitor card that had been pre-programmed with my biometrics.
Level 42.
When the elevator doors slid open on the executive floor, Mateo’s personal assistant—a sharp-eyed woman in a tailored black dress—was waiting for me.
“Señora Roberto,” she said without smiling. “Mr. Santos is expecting you in his private office. Right this way.”
We walked down a long, minimalist corridor lined with modern abstract art and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the waking city. She pushed open a set of heavy walnut doors and stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter alone.
Mateo’s office was enormous—more like a luxury penthouse than a corporate workspace. A massive glass desk sat in the center, flanked by leather armchairs, a private wet bar, and a sprawling bookshelf. Mateo stood by the window, holding a crystal tumbler of black coffee, his back to the door.
He didn't turn around immediately.
“You came back,” Mateo said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet room. “I expected your father to send lawyers, or perhaps a desperate bribe delivered by some disgraced family friend. I didn't expect the proud Valentina Roberto to walk back into the lion's den.”
“My father had a stroke of sorts last night after I showed him the folder,” I said, walking to the center of the room and stopping ten feet behind him. “He spent the entire night vomiting and screaming into his whiskey glass, realizing that his entire legacy is built on quicksand. He couldn't come here today even if he wanted to.”
Mateo turned slowly, taking a sip of his coffee. His eyes swept over my charcoal suit, a faint, sardonic smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“And you?” he asked. “Did you come to plead for mercy on his behalf?”
“No,” I said steadily. “I came to make a deal.”
Mateo raised an eyebrow, setting his coffee tumbler down on the glass desk with a soft clink. He walked toward me, stopping just close enough that I could feel the clean, sharp scent of his cologne.
“A deal?” he repeated, his voice dripping with amusement. “Valentina, what could a bankrupt debtor possibly offer a man who owns everything?”
“My expertise,” I said, lifting my chin. “You want to dismantle my father’s corporate holdings? Fine. Do it legally, cleanly, and without leaving a paper trail that could trigger a messy, protracted bankruptcy court battle that drags on for years. I know every hidden asset my father owns. I know every shell company he registered in the Cayman Islands, every dummy account under my mother’s maiden name, every unregistered property in Valle de Bravo. If you hire me—not as a charity case, but as your senior asset-recovery strategist—I will hand you my family’s entire empire on a silver platter in thirty days.”
Mateo stared at me. The amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a razor-sharp, calculating gleam.
He walked completely around me, circling me like a wolf inspecting its prey, before stopping right in front of me again.
“You want to help me destroy your own family?” he asked softly, testing the edges of my resolve.
“They stopped being my family the night my father framed an innocent seventeen-year-old boy and lied to me for fifteen years,” I replied without blinking. “They are criminals who happened to share my DNA. And unlike them, I understand numbers. Numbers don't lie, Mateo. And neither do I.”
Mateo looked deep into my eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any tremor of deceit. Finding none, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.
“Thirty days, Valentina,” he said, extending a hand between us. “If you miss a single asset, if you try to shield a single peso of your father’s stolen wealth, I will personally sign the federal fraud warrants for both of them, and I will make sure you watch them walk out of your Interlomas mansion in handcuffs.”
I looked down at his large, warm hand—the same hand that had once wiped tears from my face in a dusty Coyoacán courtyard.
May you like
Without a second thought, I slid my hand into his, gripping his palm with firm, unyielding strength.
“Deal.”
