Chapter 8 - THE SECOND WILL
Diego didn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, he slowly opened the black legal folder, pulled out a single sheet of official paper, and held it out toward Mateo.
“I’m not here to stop you from taking the money, Mateo,” Diego said softly, his voice catching his brother off guard.
Mateo frowned, his hand freezing halfway toward his belt. “What is that?”
“It’s a declaration of trust,” Diego replied, his eyes steady. “I prepared it before I left San Miguel. It transfers fifty percent of the liquidated value of this vault into a blind trust under your name.”
Mateo didn’t take the paper. He stared at Diego as if trying to detect a trap. “You’re lying. You’re a lawyer. You don’t give away millions to a bastard stranger.”
“I’m not giving it to you because I want to,” Diego said, his emotional restraint finally showing a small, human crack. “I’m giving it to you because my father was a liar, and my mother has suffered enough for his sins.”
“You think you’re the only one who grew up in his shadow? He controlled every second of my life. He chose my school, he chose my career, he chose the way I spoke.”
“He built a perfect prison for me, and he built a neglected wasteland for you. He used us both to satisfy his own ego.”
Diego stepped closer, pointing toward the metal lockbox inside the vault.
“Brenda told me there was a second will inside that box. She thinks it gives you everything because she wanted us to kill each other for it.”
“She wanted the Mendoza name destroyed. But I’m offering you an end to the war right now. We split the fortune, we bury his secrets, and you leave my mother alone forever.”
Mateo looked from Diego to the document, then past him toward the darkness of the tunnel where Javier was waiting.
The heavy silence of the mine settled over them again, thick with thirty years of resentment and unfinished business.
Slowly, Mateo reached out his rough, calloused hand and snatched the paper from Diego’s fingers. He scanned the legal terms, his jaw working as he read the precise, unassailable clauses Diego had drafted.
“You’re clean, lawyer,” Mateo muttered, his voice losing a fraction of its aggression. “But I don’t trust your word. We open the box together.”
Mateo walked into the vault, lifted the heavy metal lockbox, and brought it out into the light of the halogen lamps. He used the edge of his crowbar to shatter the old brass lock with a single, violent stroke.
The lid popped open.
May you like
Inside, resting on top of a stack of old bearer bonds, was a yellowed parchment envelope sealed with red wax.
Mateo tore it open, his fingers clumsy with anticipation, and pulled out the document that Alejandro Mendoza had written on his deathbed.
