Chapter 4: The Man Who Knew Everything
Licenciado Fuentes arrived at my apartment at half past nine that night.
He was sixty-three years old, had represented my grandfather for thirty-one years, and was the only person in that entire legal filing who had not been mentioned by name — which told me he already knew why.
He set his briefcase on the dining table, opened it, and placed three folders in a row without being asked.
"You've seen the filing," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I've seen it."
"Then you know what they're attempting."
"I know what they're attempting.
What I don't know is how strong their case is."
He sat down.
"Sit with me, Valeria."
I sat.
"Your grandfather changed his will four times in the last two years of his life.
The Alcázar family's legal team will argue that pattern alone demonstrates instability.
They will bring in a medical expert who will testify that his condition in the final months made him susceptible to influence."
"He was sharp until the last six weeks."
"I know that.
I was there for every signing.
But a paid expert does not need to have been in the room.
They only need to be convincing."
"And the codicil?
The forgery claim?"
Fuentes opened the second folder.
"The codicil was signed in my presence, witnessed by two members of my staff, and notarized the same afternoon.
The forgery claim has no factual basis." He paused.
"However."
"However."
"The original notarized copy was held in a secure archive at my office.
Three weeks ago, my office was broken into.
The archive room was the only space disturbed." He looked at me directly.
"The original codicil is missing."
The room was very still.
"They took it," I said.
"I cannot prove that yet.
But the timing is not a coincidence."
"What do we have left?"
"Certified copies.
Digital records.
My sworn testimony and the testimony of my two witnesses." He folded his hands.
"It is enough to defend.
It may not be enough to move quickly.
Estate litigation of this complexity can take eighteen months.
Possibly longer."
Eighteen months.
Long enough for the Alcázars to drain what remained of their credit lines using the uncertainty as leverage.
Long enough for doubt to spread through the Montemayor board.
Long enough for the company my grandfather had spent forty years building to begin to fracture from the inside.
"They planned this carefully," I said.
"Yes."
"How long have you known about the filing?"
Fuentes was quiet for a moment.
"I received informal notice five weeks ago through a colleague.
I was preparing a response when—" He stopped.
"When what?"
"When I received a visit from Ernesto Alcázar."
I looked at him.
"He came to my office.
He was very calm.
He told me that the litigation could be withdrawn entirely if you agreed to proceed with the marriage and sign a post-nuptial agreement transferring a forty percent stake in Montemayor Group to a holding company controlled by his family."
"He came to your office and offered you that."
"He offered it to me to pass along to you.
He said he preferred to resolve the matter privately."
"And you didn't tell me."
"He came four days before the wedding.
I was still assessing whether it was a genuine offer or a pressure tactic." Fuentes met my eyes.
"I should have told you immediately.
That was my error, and I am sorry for it."
The apology landed quietly.
I didn't dismiss it.
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I would relay the message.
I did not tell him I would recommend it."
"Good." I looked at the third folder.
"What's in that one?"
He opened it.
Inside were bank statements — not Alcázar accounts.
A private account registered to a shell company incorporated in the Cayman Islands eighteen months ago.
"What am I looking at?"
"Rodrigo Alcázar opened this account fourteen months before he died.
He made twelve deposits over eight months.
The total is just over three million dollars." Fuentes pointed to a line near the bottom.
"The last deposit was made six days before his death."
"Where did the money come from?"
"That is what I have not yet been able to confirm.
But the account had two authorized signatories." He pointed again.
"Rodrigo.
And Santiago."
I stared at the page.
"Santiago had access to this account while Rodrigo was alive."
"Yes."
"And after Rodrigo died?"
"The account remained active.
There were no further deposits.
But there were withdrawals." He turned the page.
"Beginning two months after Rodrigo's death.
Eleven withdrawals over six months.
All transferred to the same destination."
He pointed to the receiving account name.
Renata Alcázar.
I sat back in my chair.
Rodrigo hadn't left Renata alone and unprotected.
He had left her three million dollars in a private offshore account that his brother already had access to.
And Santiago had been feeding that money to her — or controlling it for her — for months before he ever proposed to me.
"Fuentes," I said.
"How did Rodrigo die?"
The licenciado looked at me for a long moment before he answered.
"Officially," he said, "a heart attack.
He was thirty-four years old."
"And unofficially?"
May you like
He closed the folder.
"That," he said carefully, "is a question I think you should ask someone other than me."
