Chapter 7 - INTO THE CAVERN OF LIES
Diego walked into the light of the cavern without making an effort to hide his footsteps.
His leather dress shoes crunched loudly against the loose gravel and shale of the mine floor.
The two hired guards instantly spun around, their hands reaching for the pistols tucked into their waistbands.
“Hold!” Mateo shouted, his deep, resonant voice echoing off the stone walls of the shaft.
The guards froze, their eyes shifting from Diego to Mateo.
Mateo slowly turned around, dropping the crowbar onto the ground with a loud, metallic clang that reverberated through the tunnel.
He looked at Diego, his eyes narrowing, a slow, bitter smile spreading across his face—a smile that looked exactly like Brenda’s, but fueled by a much deeper, ancestral hatred.
“Well, well,” Mateo said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The legitimate son finally decides to visit the slums.”
“You look just like his pictures, Diego. Pristine. Expensive. Unspoiled by the real world.”
Diego stopped five feet away from him, his legal folder held tightly against his side, his posture perfectly straight despite the damp, oppressive heat of the cave.
“The mine belongs to the Mendoza estate, Mateo,” Diego said calmly, his lawyer’s voice steady and unyielding. “You are trespassing on private property.”
Mateo let out a loud, hollow laugh that shook the dust from the low cave ceiling.
“Private property?” Mateo stepped closer, the scent of sweat, fuel, and old dirt rolling off him. “This property was bought with the blood of my mother’s family!”
“Your father used my mother’s uncle to smuggle his first cash reserves out of Zacatecas. Then he watched her starve while he bought your mother diamond necklaces in Europe!”
“Don’t talk to me about the law, little brother. The law is a luxury for people who can afford to buy the judges.”
Behind Mateo, a loud, high-pitched pop echoed through the cavern. The plasma cutter had finished its job.
The massive steel door creaked open, swinging inward into the darkness on heavy, greased hinges that had survived thirty years underground.
A wave of cool, dry air rushed out of the hidden vault, carrying the unmistakable, metallic scent of pristine, uncirculated gold and old paper.
The work lights illuminated the interior of the small, stone-carved room.
Inside, stacked neatly against the back wall, were dozens of heavy wooden crates stamped with old industrial markings from the 1990s. One of the crates had been pried open, revealing rows of gleaming, heavy gold bars.
Beside the gold sat a pristine metal lockbox, its surface covered in a layer of fine white dust.
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“There it is,” Mateo whispered, his eyes reflecting the golden light. “The life I was supposed to have. The education, the security, the respect.”
He turned back to Diego, his face twisting into an expression of pure, unadulterated rage. “Are you going to stop me with your little folder, counselor?”
