Chapter 3: The Party on the Yacht
Two miles out from the coast of Cancún, the Caribbean Sea was calm, reflecting the bright silver of a full moon.
On the upper deck of Valentina’s Light, the bass from the sound system vibrated through the teakwood floorplates. Premium champagne flowed into crystal flutes, and the smell of expensive cigars drifted out over the dark water.
Mauricio Serrano sat on the white leather lounge sofa, wearing an open-collared silk shirt and a tailored blazer. At thirty-six, he possessed the rugged, manicured charm of a soap opera actor—a charm he had weaponized his entire adult life.
Sitting on his lap, playing with the gold chain around his neck, was Paola—a twenty-five-year-old boutique model who had been his mistress for eight months.
"Are you sure your old man isn't going to check the hospital?" Paola pouted, sipping from a glass of rosé. "If he finds out you aren't in that boring chapel..."
"Ernesto Aguilar is an old dinosaur," Mauricio laughed, kissing her collarbone. "He’s sitting in a hospital chair crying into his handkerchief. Besides, I already laid the groundwork. I told the doctors I needed to consult my lawyers before any risky surgery. Every hour they delay is another drop in intracranial pressure."
A friend of Mauricio’s—a real estate developer named Sergio—raised his glass from across the deck. "To the grieving widower! May the insurance payouts be swift and tax-free!"
The circle of guests laughed, clinking their glasses together.
"I deserve every peso," Mauricio sneered, leaning back and looking up at the mast. "Three years of playing the humble, devoted husband to that boring little girl. Three years of listening to her father lecture me about 'hard work' and 'integrity' while he sat on billions."
"Well, now you get the villa, the accounts, and the boat, baby," Paola cooed, tracing her fingernail down his chest. "When do we move to Miami?"
"As soon as the funeral is over," Mauricio smiled, his eyes glittering with greed. "I’ll wear black for a month, shed a few tears for the society magazines, and then we disappear."
He reached into his pocket to check his phone, wanting to see if the hospital had called with the 'tragic news' yet.
Instead, he saw a text message from his personal banker:
URGENT: All corporate accounts flagged and frozen by federal audit. Credit lines suspended.
Mauricio frowned, sitting up slightly. "What the hell...?"
Before he could dial the banker’s number, the music on the upper deck abruptly cut out.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the lapping of the waves against the hull.
"Hey! Why did the music stop?" Paola complained, looking down toward the cabin. "Did the generator trip?"
May you like
"That wasn't the generator," Sergio said, standing up and pointing out toward the dark water. "Look."
Cutting through the silver moonlight, moving with terrifying speed and no running lights, were two matte-black maritime security vessels heading directly for the yacht.
