Chapter 7 - THE MORNING AFTER IN SAN PEDRO
The morning sun over San Pedro Garza García rose with blinding, arrogant splendor, casting a brilliant golden light across the manicured lawns, luxury country clubs, and ultra-exclusive boutiques of Monterrey’s billionaire playground.
Inside the VIP booth of Vértigo, the music had finally died down.
The heavy, suffocating scent of smoke and spilled liquor hung thick in the air like a physical residue. Empty champagne magnums littered the floor like spent artillery shells. On the sprawling leather couch, half-covered by a designer sequin dress, Mateo Garza stirred.
He groaned, his head throbbing as if someone were driving a railroad spike directly through his temples. His mouth felt like it was lined with coarse sandpaper.
“Ugh... what time is it?” Mateo muttered, squinting against the harsh morning daylight streaming through the club’s floor-to-ceiling glass doors.
Beside him, Valeria let out a low, incoherent grunt, her blonde hair tangled across her face as she rolled over, still dead asleep in her party clothes.
Mateo shoved her heavy leg off his lap, stood up unsteadily on legs that felt like jelly, and staggered toward the couch cushion where he had tossed his phone the night before. He reached down, picked up the sleek black device, and flicked off airplane mode.
Instantly, the screen exploded into a frantic cascade of notifications.
Missed Call: House Security (03:15 AM) Missed Call: House Security (03:18 AM) Missed Call: Federal Police District 4 (04:02 AM) Missed Call: Assistant Roberto (06:30 AM) Missed Call: Corporate Legal Counsel (07:15 AM)
Mateo frowned, a spike of cold unease piercing through his alcohol-induced hangover. He tapped the icon for his head of private security, Soto—though he didn't know Soto worked for Alejandro, he knew him as the property manager—and hit call.
It rang twice before a cold, flat voice answered.
“Garza,” Soto said.
“Soto, what the hell is going on?” Mateo barked, rubbing his temples with his free hand. “Why are my assistants and security calling me at dawn? Where are you? Why is the house so quiet when I check the perimeter cameras?”
There was a long, chilling pause on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Garza,” Soto said slowly, his voice devoid of any professional deference. “I suggest you drive back to your estate on Avenida San Agustín immediately. And I suggest you call your corporate legal counsel on the way. You’re going to need them.”
“What are you talking about, you idiot?!” Mateo snarled, his temper flaring. “Explain yourself right now or you’re fired!”
“You can’t fire me, Mr. Garza,” Soto replied calmly. “Because as of 6:00 AM this morning, every corporate asset, every bank account, every real estate holding, and every shell company registered under your name has been placed under emergency court receivership and transferred to the primary lienholder.”
Mateo froze. The phone almost slipped from his sweating fingers.
“Lienholder... what lienholder?! I own everything outright! My holdings are worth over six hundred million pesos!”
“Not anymore,” Soto’s voice dropped flat. “Five years ago, when you forged the corporate registry documents on the Apodaca industrial park tender to cut out your primary partner, you left a digital signature trail through an offshore holding in the Cayman Islands. That partner just exercised a multi-layered debt-conversion clause backed by every major bank in Monterrey. You’re legally bankrupt, Mr. Garza. Your accounts are frozen. Your credit cards are declined. And your house... well, your house now belongs to Alejandro Silva.”
Mateo stood paralyzed in the center of the VIP booth, the color draining entirely from his face until he looked like a corpse.
Alejandro.
May you like
The name hit him like a physical blow to the chest.
Without waiting another second, Mateo dropped the phone, shoved past the snoring body of Valeria, and bolted out of the club toward his parked Porsche Cayenne, his heart hammering with a panic so absolute it felt like suffocation.
