CHAPTER 1
I gripped the steering wheel of the armored Suburban until my knuckles turned white. I was parked at the main portico of the De la Vega mansion, in the heart of San Pedro Garza García. The air conditioning was on full blast, but I felt a drop of cold sweat sliding down the back of my neck.
It was my first official week as Doña Victoria’s personal chauffeur.
I looked in the rearview mirror. The solid oak double doors opened, and out she came. She walked with that rehearsed elegance, chin held high, as if the simple act of stepping on the ground was a favor she was doing for the world. She wore an impeccable tailored suit, dark sunglasses, and that air of superiority that freezes your blood.
"Good morning, Mateo," she said as she got into the SUV, without even looking at me. Her voice was a silken whip. Soft, but cutting.
"Good morning, Señora Victoria," I replied. My own voice sounded strange, hollow. I had to swallow hard not to scream.
That was the same voice that had yelled at my wife. That was the same woman who had lifted a damn marble statue and smashed it against the womb where my daughter was growing. And there I was, opening the door for her, calling her "señora," acting as her loyal dog.
The humiliation burned, but the thirst for revenge was pure ice in my veins.
The drive to her country club was in complete silence. I drove along the tree-lined avenues of Calzada del Valle, looking at the luxury boutiques and restaurants where a single breakfast cost what I used to make in a week at the factory.
While she checked her phone in the back seat, my mind traveled back to my reality. It had taken me a whole year to plan this. A year of sleepless nights, of finding black-market contacts to get fake IDs, impeccable references from wealthy families who no longer lived in the country, and a clean background check under the name Mateo Sánchez.
I had to erase any trace of my marriage to Elena. In the official records, Mateo the husband of Elena, the man who cried blood in the waiting room of the public hospital, had disappeared. Now there was only Mateo the chauffeur, a quiet widower with no children on his resume, willing to work from dawn to dusk without asking questions.
We arrived at the club. I quickly got out and opened the door for her with a bow of my head.
"I’ll be back at twelve, Mateo. Wash the SUV, the tires have some dust on them," she ordered without stopping, handing me the house keys so I could enter through the service door to wait.
"Whatever you command, señora."
I watched her walk away, greeting other women of Monterrey’s high society with kisses on the cheek. Hypocrites, I thought. If they only knew the monster hiding behind that pearl necklace.
I returned to the mansion. This was the part of the day I was waiting for. The dead time. The time to observe, to map the terrain, to find the weak points of the fortress that had taken my wife's life.
I entered through the back gate. The service house was almost as big as my own cinderblock home, but it was hidden behind tall security hedges so "the bosses" wouldn't have to see the help.
I headed to the kitchen. It was an immense space of stainless steel and granite, where it always smelled of freshly cooked food. That’s where I met Rosa, the head cook. She was an older woman from Oaxaca, with gray hair tied in a braid and tired eyes. She had been working for the De la Vegas for fifteen years.
"Would you like some coffee, boy?" Rosa offered with a timid smile, wiping her hands on her apron.
"I appreciate it very much, Doña Rosa," I said, sitting on a wooden stool in the corner.
Rosa was my bridge. She knew all the secrets of the house, even though fear kept her quiet. I knew I had to earn her trust little by little, without raising suspicion.
As I drank the black coffee, I heard heavy footsteps coming down the service stairs. The exact same stairs Elena had fallen down. A knot formed in my stomach.
It was Mauricio. The eldest son.
The true origin of this entire nightmare.
Mauricio was twenty-eight years old, but he acted like a spoiled teenager. He wore designer clothes but always looked disheveled, with dark circles under his eyes that betrayed his nights of excess in the clubs of Centrito Valle.
He walked into the kitchen as if he owned the universe.
"Rosa, make me some chilaquiles, this hangover is killing me," he demanded, rubbing his eyes. He didn't even say "please."
"Right away, young Mauricio," Rosa replied, immediately lowering her gaze. I noticed how her hands trembled slightly as she turned on the stove.
Mauricio poured himself a glass of mineral water and locked eyes with me. His eyes were cold, empty.
"You're the new guy, right? The driver."
"Yes, sir. Mateo Sánchez, at your service," I said, standing up as a sign of respect, even though inside I wanted to grab the chef's knife Rosa had on the table and bury it in his chest.
He was the reason Doña Victoria had gone crazy. He was the predator of the house. The one who harassed the maids, cornering them in the laundry room. When Elena got pregnant with my child, Doña Victoria was so paranoid and so used to covering up her son's "trash" that she didn't doubt for a second that the baby was Mauricio's.
"You'd better not be as useless as the last chauffeur," Mauricio spat, taking a sip of water. "My mom is very demanding. And I have no patience."
"Don't worry, sir. I am very careful with my work."
Mauricio let out a dismissive, nasal laugh and left the kitchen without another word.
May you like
I stood there, staring at the door he had walked through. I felt Rosa’s eyes on me.
"Don't pay attention to him, Mateo," the cook whispered, approaching carefully. "The young master always wakes up in a bad mood. Just... keep your distance. Especially if you bring your family around here."
Related Stories
