“Yes.”
The honesty disgusted you.
Mateo looked at you with tired eyes.
“And then I found your name in the file. I went to the hospital last night because I was stabbed two blocks away. I did not know you were on shift. When you opened the curtain, I thought God had finally developed a sense of cruelty.”
You laughed once, bitter and broken.
“Don’t bring God into this.”
“You’re right.”
You turned toward the door.
“I’m leaving.”
“Sofia.”
You spun back.
“If you say my name again, I swear I will reopen every stitch I gave you.”
For one second, he almost smiled.
Then he saw your face and did not.
“The flash drive has the proof,” he said. “Gabriel’s case. My father’s accounts. Julian’s current operation. Judges. officers. politicians. Everyone.”
“Then give it to the FBI.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“At noon.”
You stared at him.
“Why wait?”
“Because if I walk into the federal building with it now, Julian will move first. He still has my niece.”
That stopped you.
Mateo’s mask slipped.
Not much.
But enough for you to see the terror underneath.
“She’s eight,” he said. “Her name is Elena. My sister tried to leave the family business. Julian took her daughter last night to force me to turn over the ledger.”
The rage in you had nowhere to go now.
Gabriel.
Your grandmother.
An eight-year-old girl.
All of you trapped in the orbit of men who thought violence was inheritance.
“You want me to help you,” you said.
“No.”
“Then why tell me this?”
“Because you deserve the truth before I ask you to trust me.”
You laughed again.
“Trust you? You planted evidence on me, brought danger to my home, and hid the truth about my fiancé’s murder.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I am still the safest monster in the room.”
You hated that he might be right.
For the next five minutes, no one spoke.
Outside the window, Lake Michigan looked cold enough to swallow secrets whole.
Finally, you said, “Where is Elena?”
Mateo’s eyes sharpened.
“A warehouse on the South Side. Julian thinks I don’t know.”
“You do?”
“I know where he hides children. That is not the same thing as having a clean way to reach her.”
You felt sick.
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
His mouth tightened.
“I need you safe until noon. After that, the evidence goes federal, your grandmother goes into protected care, Elena comes home if I survive, and you never see me again.”
Something about the last part should have relieved you.
It did not.
You told yourself that was adrenaline.
Nothing else.
At 11:38 a.m., everything went wrong.
You were in a guest room upstairs, refusing to sleep, when the first shot cracked through the estate.
Not loud like movies.
Sharper.
Meaner.
The kind of sound your body understood before your brain did.
You dropped to the floor.
Another shot.
Then shouting.
Heavy footsteps.
Glass breaking below.
You crawled toward the bed, heart slamming against your ribs.
The door burst open.
Mateo stood there with a gun in one hand and blood blooming through the bandage you had placed hours earlier.
“Get up,” he said.
You stared at the blood.
“You tore the stitches.”
Leave a Comment