Chapter 8: The Envelope and the Handcuffs
"That... that's illegal!" Mauricio stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward the exits, looking for an escape route. "That recording is out of context! I was coping with trauma! You can't prove anything about her accident!"
Ernesto reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out the sealed white envelope the neurosurgeon had given him at dawn.
"This is the official forensic medical report signed by three chief surgeons of this hospital," Ernesto said, holding the document up for the press to see. "It documents high-velocity blunt force trauma to the back of my daughter's head, caused by a heavy weapon, along with defensive bruising on her forearms and linear contusions where you pinned her down."
Mauricio shook his head wildly, his breathing shallow and rapid. "No... no, no..."
"We also searched your rented locker at the marina an hour ago," Beatriz added smoothly. "We found a one-way charter ticket to Madrid scheduled for tonight, booked under your name and Paola Gómez's name—paid for with funds stolen from Valentina's charitable trust."
The trap wasn't just closed; it was welded shut. Every lie Mauricio had told for three years had been systematically dismantled in less than eight hours.
Ernesto gave a slight nod to the federal police officers waiting by the pillars.
"Mauricio Serrano," the lead federal detective said, stepping forward and drawing a pair of heavy steel handcuffs. "You are under arrest for attempted murder, domestic battery, grand financial fraud, and money laundering. You have the right to remain silent."
"Don Ernesto! Please!" Mauricio screamed as the officers grabbed his arms and slammed him face-first against the marble wall to cuff him. The polished, arrogant playboy was gone, replaced by a sobbing, terrified coward. "I'm sorry! It was an accident! We argued about money—she hit her head! Don't let them take me to a federal prison!"
Ernesto walked up to him, stopping just inches from Mauricio’s face as the officers pulled him back to his feet.
"You asked for an hour of delay so my daughter would die on an operating table," Ernesto whispered, his voice so cold it made the detective shiver. "I am going to hire the best prosecutors in this country to ensure you spend the next forty years in a concrete cell without a single peso to buy a blanket."
Ernesto turned his back as the officers dragged Mauricio, kicking and screaming, out through the glass doors and into the flashing strobe lights of the police cruisers.
The cameras followed the spectacle outside, leaving the hospital lobby quiet once again.
Ernesto looked at Beatriz and Iván. "Is it finished?"
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"He has no money, no lawyers, and no bail," Beatriz said respectfully. "He is nothing, sir."
"Good," Ernesto said, turning toward the elevator bank. "Now, I am going to see my daughter."
