Chapter 66: The Cursed Inheritance

MATEO – POV

The morning after my mother’s death, I was supposed to leave for San Cristóbal. I had fulfilled my duty: I kept vigil over her, prayed her Mass, buried her beside my father. My flight was booked, my suitcase packed.

But at the Salazar estate, no one would let me leave.

The family lawyer—a thin man with an ashen face and an impeccable black suit—appeared in the main hall carrying a leather briefcase. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, as if afraid of the words he was about to pronounce.

“Mr. Mateo… Monsignor… your mother left very clear instructions. Before you depart, you must listen to the reading of her will. It was her final condition.”

I took a deep breath. The last thing I wanted was to prolong my stay in this hell of memories. But if my mother had asked for it, I could not refuse.

“Fine. Let’s do it quickly.”

The family gathered in the grand colonial hall. Heavy curtains blocked the Jalisco sunlight, and the air was thick with tension and the smell of tobacco. Santiago and Sebastián sat on either side of me, rigid as statues. Their wives, a few stone-faced cousins, and other distant relatives completed the circle.

I sat in silence, still wearing my purple cassock. Everyone looked at me as if I were an intruder—a ghost from the past who had returned to claim what he did not deserve.

The lawyer opened the briefcase with trembling hands and began to read. His voice echoed through the hall:

“I, María Elena Mendoza, widow of Salazar, being of sound mind, hereby declare my last will. To my sons Santiago and Sebastián, my eternal gratitude for caring for this house and for me in my final years. To my grandchildren, my blessing. But the totality of my personal assets, properties registered in my name, and bank fortune I bequeath to my youngest son, Mateo, known to the world as a monsignor of the Church.”

Silence fell—absolute, heavy as lead. I felt the air grow dense, unbreathable.

I myself froze. I had not expected it. I did not want it.

Patricia, Santiago’s wife, was the first to break the silence. She leapt to her feet, eyes blazing with fury.

“How can this be?” she shouted, her voice ricocheting off the walls. “Fifteen years gone! Fifteen years without looking back, without a call, without a visit! And now he comes back to take everything.”

Santiago shot her a look sharp as a blade.

“Shut up, Patricia. We have more than enough money from the business.”

She resisted, trembling with rage.

“But it’s unfair! You deserve that inheritance, not him! You stayed. You took care of her while this one hid behind a cassock!”

The blow of a fist on the mahogany table thundered through the room. Santiago—who rarely lost his composure—stood and roared in a voice that froze the blood:

“I said shut up! It was my mother’s decision, not yours!”

Patricia recoiled, her face red with restrained fury. No one else dared speak. Silence fell again, heavier than before.

I drew a deep breath, struggling to remain calm.

“I don’t want the money. Not the properties, not the fortune. None of it interests me.”

The lawyer cleared his throat, uncomfortable, shuffling papers.

“I’m sorry, Monsignor. Your mother included a very specific clause. This inheritance cannot be ceded, donated, or transferred until you formally accept it. And she added something else…” He paused dramatically. “If you do not accept it during your lifetime, it will remain frozen in a trust until one of your children can claim it.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“That’s impossible,” I said sharply. “I am a priest. I took vows of celibacy. I cannot have children.”

The lawyer looked at me with a mix of respect and discomfort.

“Even so, I must abide by what the lady wrote. Those are her exact words.”

The room erupted in murmurs. Some were shocked, others stayed silent out of respect for the dead, but the resentful looks were unmistakable.

Unable to restrain herself, Patricia attacked again, venom in every word:

“So what will you do, Monsignor? Let that fortune rot away? Abandon your mother’s money the way you abandoned her? It’s an insult to her memory!”

I looked at her steadily, projecting a calm I did not feel.

“It’s my decision. If I don’t need it, someone else will. There are foundations, hospitals, orphanages that could save thousands of lives with that money. I don’t want it for myself.”

She let out a bitter, cruel laugh.

“You’re going to donate it all? A fortune built on blood and sacrifice? That’s a mockery!”

“It’s my money now,” I replied evenly. “I’ll do with it what my conscience deems right.”

Santiago placed a firm hand on her shoulder, physically restraining her.

“That’s enough, Patricia. Respect my mother’s will.”

The lawyer extended the documents toward me with trembling hands.

“You must sign here, Monsignor, to formalize legal acceptance.”

I signed without hesitation, my pen tracing my name with resolve. My signature sealed what they saw as an unforgivable act of betrayal and what, for me, was a necessary renunciation.

I closed the briefcase, stood, adjusted my cassock, and said firmly:

“I have fulfilled what my mother asked. Now I must go. My flock awaits me in Chiapas.”

Evening fell quickly over Guadalajara. My brothers accompanied me to the international airport in heavy silence. The drive was quiet at first, broken only by the engine’s roar and the city’s noise.

In the first-class lounge, before parting, Santiago embraced me tightly—more tightly than I expected.

“Don’t forget us, little brother. We’re blood. That never changes.”

Sebastián did the same, his embrace like steel.

“If you ever need us—if it’s the last thing we do in this life—we’ll come for you. Call us.”

There was no tenderness in their voices, but there was a brutal truth I recognized. Despite everything—the crime, the opposing choices, the years of silence—we were still brothers.

We embraced, the three of us, a gesture we hadn’t repeated since we were children playing in the estate courtyard.

“Take care of yourselves,” I said. “And get away from the business if you can. Before it’s too late.”

Santiago smiled sadly.

“It’s already too late for us, Mateo. But you made it out. Don’t forget that.”

On the Aeroméxico plane, lifting off toward Mexico City and then Tuxtla, I looked out the window. Guadalajara shrank beneath the clouds, its lights flickering like candles. The land I tried to forget now receded once more—but with new wounds that still bled.

I leaned back in my first-class seat and closed my eyes. I thought of my mother—of the smile she gave me before she died, of the photo in the locket now hanging at my neck, of my brothers’ tears at the mausoleum.

I thought of the bloodstained fortune I did not want but that was legally mine.

And then I thought of her.

Lucía.

Her face appeared in my mind with an unbearable clarity that stole my breath. Where was she? Had she eaten today? Did she sleep well, or was she tormented by nightmares? Did she think of me the way I thought of her every damned night? Desire burned in my chest like embers. I missed her with physical pain, with a need that wounded my soul.

But I had to bury it. I had to return to San Cristóbal as monsignor—eyes steady, desire hidden beneath layers of cassock and prayer.

I looked at the crucifix hanging at my neck—the same one my mother had kissed before she died—and whispered a desperate prayer:

“Lord, give me strength. Because what I love most is what condemns me most. And now I carry a fortune I don’t want and a desire I cannot control.”

The plane cut through the clouds over the Mexican Bajío. Guadalajara disappeared behind me. Ahead lay San Cristóbal—the rebuilt cathedral, my destiny.

And between those two worlds, a weight I could not release: my desire for Lucía, the blood of my surname, a cursed inheritance.

Three chains dragging me toward different abysses.

And me, caught between them, trying not to fall into any.