Chapter 3 - The Paper Fire
By sunrise, the retribution was already moving through the city like an underground fire.
My phone buzzed incessantly on the stainless-steel bedside table. It had been vibrating since 4:00 AM, a frantic, desperate rhythm that rattled against the metal. Eventually, I reached over and picked it up.
There were forty-two missed calls from Matteo, fourteen voicemails, and a barrage of text messages that shifted wildly from arrogant entitlement to sniveling hysteria.
*Lucia, pick up. Mom didn't mean it, she had too much wine at lunch. You know how theatrical she gets.*
*Lucia, who the hell were those men at the gate? My father's security team got disarmed and tied to the gazebo! Call them off!*
*Lucia, please. The bank just called my dad. Our floor plan financing for all six auto dealerships has been canceled. They’re calling in our seventy-million-dollar balloon payment by noon. Talk to your mother. Tell her we can work this out.*
I stared at the glowing screen, my thumb hovering over the delete button. Just yesterday, at that grand marble dining table in the Lobo estate, Matteo had sat silently while his mother Beatrice called me a gutter rat who trapped her precious son with a bastard pregnancy. When Beatrice picked up the Louisville Slugger from behind the wet bar—promising to "fix the problem before the registry was printed"—Matteo hadn't even dropped his fork. He had stared down at his oxfords, his cheeks flushed with cowardice, while thirty aunts, uncles, and cousins laughed into their crystal wine glasses.
"Don't delete them," Victoria’s voice came from the armchair by the window. She was sipping black espresso from a porcelain cup she had ordered brought in from the city's finest hotel. "Save every message. The state prosecutor will need them to establish a pattern of coercion and extortion."
"What did you do to their business?" I asked.
Victoria took a measured sip of her coffee. "Arturo Lobo built his luxury car empire on predatory subprime lending and private credit lines extended by an offshore trust in Panama. He believed the money belonged to a Swiss consortium." She offered a terrifying, razor-thin smile. "The consortium is mine. I bought his debt four years ago, Lucia, simply because his dealerships sat on land that bordered my transit hubs. I had no intention of calling in his notes until his wife swung a bat at my bloodline."
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"They'll be ruined," I said, feeling an odd, cold detachment spreading through my chest.
"Ruined is a mercy," Victoria countered. "By Friday, Arturo Lobo will be selling used sedans out of a gravel lot in the desert, and Beatrice will discover how the women at the state penitentiary treat child abusers."
