Chapter 2 - THE COLD VISITING ROOM
The air inside Apodaca Prison smelled of industrial bleach, stale sweat, and damp concrete.
Diego walked through three separate security checkpoints, his expensive leather shoes clicking sharply against the reinforced linoleum floor.
He wore his dark grey suit, a tactical choice meant to project absolute authority, though his chest felt hollow with anticipation.
The guard led him into a small, narrow visiting booth divided by a thick pane of scratched bulletproof glass.
There were no windows to the outside world, only the harsh, buzzing hum of fluorescent lights that cast long, sickly shadows against the grey walls.
Diego sat down on the bolted metal stool and placed his hands on the cold counter. He waited.
Two minutes later, a heavy iron door groaned open on the other side of the glass.
Brenda stepped through.
The transformation was striking, yet her essence remained entirely untouched.
The fine silks, designer jewelry, and manicured nails were gone, replaced by a shapeless, oversized beige prison jumpsuit.
Her hair was pulled back into a tight, messy ponytail, and her face looked paler, older, with dark circles carved deeply beneath her eyes.
But when she looked at Diego, the same cruel, shameless spark flashed in her gaze.
She sat down slowly, the metal chains around her wrists clinking against the table, and picked up the plastic telephone receiver.
Diego picked up his receiver, his face a mask of absolute stone.
“You have five minutes, Brenda,” Diego said, his voice cutting through the static of the phone line. “Make it worth the flight.”
Brenda let out a dry, rasping laugh that echoed poorly through the plastic speaker.
“Look at you. Still trying to play the king of the courtroom,” she whispered, leaning closer to the glass. “You look tired, Diego. Is taking care of a broken mother harder than you thought?”
“Do not mention my mother,” Diego replied, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Tell me what you wrote in the letter, or I walk out that door, and I ensure your parole hearings are blocked for the next decade.”
Brenda’s smile faded, replaced by an intense, burning seriousness.
“You think you know everything because you found that little camera under the eave, don’t you?” she said, her voice dropping to a low hiss. “You thought I was just torturing her for fun.”
“I was looking for the key, Diego. The key your father gave her before his mind started slipping.”
“What key?” Diego asked, keeping his voice perfectly level, refusing to show a single hint of curiosity.
“The key to the vault in the hills of Guanajuato,” Brenda said, her eyes locked onto his. “Your father didn’t leave his wealth in bonds or real estate. He didn't trust the government, and he certainly didn't trust your mother.”
“He converted his entire life’s work into gold bullion and untraceable bearer bonds. Millions, Diego. Millions of dollars hidden in an old mining outpost.”
Diego felt his heart take a heavy, erratic thud against his ribs, but he maintained his steady gaze. “My father was an honest architect. He didn’t have millions in hidden gold.”
“Architect?” Brenda scoffed, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass. “He was a consultant for the biggest cartels in the north during the nineties, designing their underground networks. He kept a percentage of every single build.”
“And that’s not even the best part.”
Brenda leaned in so close her breath fogged the glass.
“The gold doesn’t belong to you. Because according to the secondary di chúc—the real will that he hid—the fortune belongs to his first-born son.”
Diego froze. “I am his only son.”
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Brenda’s laughter was loud, sharp, and terrifyingly genuine.
“Oh, Dieguito. You are his only legitimate son. But you weren’t the first.”
