Chapter 7 - The Locks and the Law
By nine-thirty, two locksmiths from a commercial security firm were drilling out the cylinders of the front door, replacing them with titanium anti-pick mechanisms.
Beside me stood Sofia Delgado, my attorney and one of Madrid’s most ruthless civil litigators. Sofia was a woman in her late forties with razor-cut silver hair, dressed in charcoal tailoring, holding a leather briefcase that felt like an arsenal.
“The video footage from Cazorla is already secured,” Sofia said, tapping her tablet as the locksmiths worked. “Don Mateo handed it over to the investigating judge without resistance. The assault is captured from two separate angles in high-definition. It clearly shows Javier standing up, using deliberate force, and splashing the wine directly into your face. There is no judge in Spain who will dismiss this as an accident.”
“And the financial diversion?” I asked.
“Even cleaner,” Sofia smiled, a cold, shark-like grin. “The transfers originated from your sole proprietary account into the joint account, and within ten minutes, moved directly into Mercedes’ personal account. Javier left a digital paper trail as wide as the Paseo de la Castellana. He’s completely exposed. We have him on domestic battery, attempted extortion, and grand larceny.”
The locksmith handed me three brand-new, heavy brass keys. “All finished, Señora Morales. Without these, nobody is getting through this door without a battering ram.”
“Thank you,” I said, paying them on the spot.
Just as the technicians walked down the staircase, the elevator doors chimed, sliding open.
Javier stepped out.
He looked hollowed out. His linen shirt from the night before was rumpled, stained, and reeking of holding-cell sweat and stale smoke. His eyes were bloodshot, his stubble uneven. He had been released on provisional bail pending a formal hearing, his uncle’s political favors barely keeping him out of pretrial detention.
He stopped dead when he saw me standing in the hallway alongside Sofia.
May you like
“Clara,” he croaked, his voice stripped of the haughty bravado from twelve hours earlier. “Clara, please. Let me in. We need to talk. My mother... my mother told me what you said. You don't have to do this.”
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