Chapter 9 - The Price of Blood
The subterranean garage was dark, smelling of motor oil and stagnant dampness.
I pushed my mother’s wheelchair through the heavy steel fire doors. Elena was heavily sedated with pain medication, her head lolling against her chest, a thick wool blanket tucked around her shoulders.
The headlights of the black Suburban flashed twice in the darkness.
The rear door clicked open, and a tall man stepped out into the dim light. Mateo Navarro was thirty-four, with the sharp, hawk-like cheekbones of the Navarro men, but his eyes were a piercing, stormy gray, entirely devoid of the shallow vanity that ruined Adrián’s face. He wore a tailored dark cashmere overcoat, his posture relaxed yet coiled with hidden violence.
Two burly private security guards immediately stepped forward, carefully lifting my mother, wheelchair and all, into the spacious cabin of the vehicle.
"Get in," Mateo said, gesturing to the leather interior.
I climbed inside, keeping my backpack clamped between my knees. Mateo slid in beside me, and the heavy doors sealed with an airtight, vault-like thud. The SUV smoothly accelerated out of the underground parking structure, vanishing into the torrential rain of the city streets.
"Where are you taking us?" I asked, my hand instinctively resting on my abdomen.
Mateo noticed the movement. His gray eyes softened for a fraction of a second before returning to their usual icy focus. "A private compound in the hills of Malinalco. Completely off-grid, biometric security, twenty-four-hour medical staff for your mother. My father’s private detectives won't find you there."
He opened a sleek leather briefcase on the fold-out console and pulled out a tablet.
"Your situation has escalated," Mateo said, turning the screen toward me. "Three hours ago, Adrián’s father met with the Minister of Culture. They are attempting to fast-track an emergency copyright injunction against you. They are claiming that the designs used in your *Mariposa* label were funded through a private family trust during your engagement, making them corporate property."
"That’s a lie!" I hissed. "I started that collection three years before I ever met Adrián!"
"The truth is whatever the person with the biggest legal retainer says it is," Mateo replied coldly. "Unless you have undeniable, unalterable proof of prior ownership."
"I have my grandmother’s original ledger," I said, patting my backpack. "Hand-drawn sketches, dating back to 1968, certified by the regional artisan guild in Oaxaca."
Mateo let out a low whistle. "If that’s authentic, it doesn't just invalidate their claim. It proves Guillermo Vega committed corporate theft thirty-five years ago. It would destroy the foundation of the Vega Group’s entire heritage branding."
"It's authentic," I said firmly. "Every single thread."
"Good," Mateo said, his lips curling into a sharp, predatory smile. "Because tomorrow morning at ten, Navarro-Vega Ventures is hosting an emergency press conference at the St. Regis. They are announcing their official merger, spinning your 'tragic departure' as a mutual corporate restructuring, and formally introducing Camila as the head of the new design house."
"They're going to parade her out there with her chopped hair?"
"She’s wearing an eight-thousand-dollar French wig," Mateo laughed darkly. "They’re going to frame her as the brave victim of a jealous, deranged working-class seamstress. Adrián’s father has already invited eighty lifestyle and financial journalists."
Suddenly, a sharp, searing cramp ripped through my lower abdomen.
I gasped, doubling over, my fingers clutching the leather seat as a cold wave of nausea washed over me.
"Lucía?" Mateo’s voice lost its detached tone, instantly sharp with concern. "What’s wrong?"
"The... the baby," I choked out, beads of cold sweat breaking across my forehead. "Bruno... he shoved me hard on the floor... I landed on my side..."
Mateo leaned forward and hit the partition window to the driver. "Change of route! Divert to the Santa Fe Private Clinic! Call Dr. Vargas right now, tell him to clear an obstetrics trauma bay under my personal authorization!"
"Mateo, no," I wheezed, fighting through the blinding pain. "Your father has eyes at Santa Fe... that’s Navarro territory..."
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"Santa Fe belongs to my mother’s family trust, not my father's," Mateo said, his voice dropping into a fierce, protective growl as he placed a large, warm hand over mine. "Hold on, Lucía. Just hold on. You survived Adrián. You’re not losing your child to him."
***
