CHAPTER 105: FATHER AND SON AT WAR

CHAPTER 105: FATHER AND SON AT WAR
The Moretti estate wasn't a home; it was an opulent mausoleum built atop the secrets of San Avelino. The air in Don Matteo’s study was so thick it felt as though my lungs had to fight for every scrap of oxygen. Outside, the storm lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows with the persistence of a debt collector, but inside, the only sound was the rhythmic flick-flick of a gold lighter.

Alessio gripped my hand with a force bordering on pain, but he didn’t let go. He was pale, his jaw set so tight it looked like carved marble. Across from us, behind a mahogany desk that likely cost more than my entire education, Don Matteo watched us with the patience of an ancient god who had already seen a thousand empires fall.

—You’re late, Alessio —Don Matteo said, his voice a murmur of silk and sandpaper—. And you’ve brought chaos with you. I told you San Avelino needed stability, not a heroine with a press badge and a martyr complex.

Alessio took a step forward, releasing my hand to face his father. The ruined bunker, Vargas’s betrayal, and Ramírez’s signature hung between them like ghosts.

—The stability is over, Father —Alessio spat—. The shadow games are done. Valentina has Directory 5. She has the photos you and Belmonte tried to burn. You can’t hide Module B behind a VENTO algorithm anymore.

Don Matteo let out a dry laugh—a sound devoid of any trace of humor. He rose slowly, revealing that despite his age, he was still the very infrastructure of this city.

—Do you really think a thumb drive changes who we are? —Don Matteo circled the desk, approaching Alessio with predatory slowness—. You talk of justice now, but you’ve forgotten who cleaned the scene ten years ago. Valentina, has my son told you what he did the night your father fell?

I felt a jolt of ice at the base of my skull. I looked at Alessio. He didn’t move, but a shadow flooded his hazel eyes—a shadow I’d never seen before. The shadow of absolute guilt.

—Tell her, Alessio —Don Matteo insisted, stopping inches away from him—. Tell her you were the one who coordinated the Austral Logistics trucks. Tell her you were the one who hauled away the remains of that defective scaffolding before the first forensic expert could even arrive. You didn’t just inherit the name, Alessio; you earned it by burying the truth of Héctor Serrano.

The silence that followed was deafening. Alessio looked down, and for the first time, his Moretti armor shattered completely before my eyes.

—I was twenty, Valentina —Alessio whispered, his voice a thread of agony—. My father told me it was an accident. He said if the inspection went poorly, the company would fold and thousands of families would be out on the street. He called it "stability." I didn't know... I didn't know who your father was. He was just a name on an insurance claim.

I felt physically ill. The man protecting me, the man I was falling for, was the same man who had scrubbed away the footprints of my father’s murder. The circle of San Avelino was perfect and cruel: everyone was stained with the same blood.

Don Matteo turned toward me, ignoring his son’s pain. He looked at me with a mix of curiosity and respect that felt more insulting than a direct slur.

—Valentina, you’re an intelligent woman. You know Santiago Belmonte is just a pawn who grew too ambitious. He can’t give you what you’re looking for. But I can.

He walked to a wall safe and pulled out a thick, yellowed manila envelope. He dropped it onto the desk with a heavy thud.

—There it is. The original Minute 27. No "logical purging," no VENTO stamps. It contains recorded confessions from Belmonte’s steel suppliers and signed contracts proving the diversion of funds into the current Mayor’s campaign. It’s Belmonte’s head on a silver platter.

I approached the desk, staring at the envelope as if it were a venomous animal. —Give me the envelope, Don Matteo. It’s judicial evidence.

—No, Valentina. It’s merchandise —the patriarch replied, crossing his arms—. I am offering you the complete truth. The closure you’ve spent ten years hunting for. Belmonte will go to prison, the VENTO system will be audited, and your father will be publicly vindicated as the hero who tried to blow the whistle.

—At what price? —I asked, the weight of the coin in my pocket feeling like lead.

—My son’s name stays out of the story. The Morettis stay out of Module B. You publish Belmonte’s downfall, you become the most famous journalist in the country, and you stop digging where you don’t belong. Justice for your father in exchange for immunity for mine. A fair trade, don't you think?

I looked at Alessio. He was still there, eyes lost in the patterns of the rug, waiting for my judgment. The betrayal of his past burned me, but his father’s offer filled me with a disgust that outweighed any desire for revenge.

I looked at the envelope. It was the ultimate temptation. I could close the wound; I could win the war. But I’d have to become the "broom" Vargas had warned me about. I’d have to sweep Don Matteo’s house so he could keep reigning over everyone else’s ashes.

—My father didn’t die so I could negotiate with his killer —I said, backing away from the desk, my nausea hardening into a glacial rage—. Keep your envelope, Don Matteo. I’ll find the truth on my own, and when I do, I won’t need you to gift-wrap it for me. I’m not your employee, and San Avelino is not your private property.

Don Matteo didn't flinch. He put the envelope away with agonizing calm, like a man putting away a toy a child had rejected out of spite. He sat back down on his mahogany throne and looked at me with a pity that chilled my blood.

—You’re just as stubborn as Héctor was —he said, lighting a cigarette in one fluid motion—. He also believed he could win on his own. But there’s something Directory 5 won’t tell you, Valentina. Something even Alessio doesn’t know.

Alessio looked up, alert. I froze near the door.

—What are you talking about? —I demanded.

Don Matteo exhaled a cloud of gray smoke that dissipated slowly in the heavy air. His smile twisted into something resembling an open wound.

—Your father didn't die because the scaffolding failed, Valentina. Oh, it failed, yes—but Héctor was still alive after the fall. He was injured, but he was about to talk. He had a name, he had physical proof, and he was waiting for the press he’d called himself —Don Matteo paused for dramatic effect, pinning me with his gaze—. Who do you think silenced him in the ambulance before he could open his mouth?

The world stopped. The sound of the rain vanished. All that remained was the frantic hammer of my heart and the implacable stare of the man holding the city's strings.

—It wasn't an accident, Valentina. And it wasn't the system. It was a personal order because Héctor had become "noisy."

—Who? —I screamed, but the voice broke in my throat.

Don Matteo leaned back into the shadows and delivered the final blow with a hangman’s precision:

—Ask your mentor, Ramírez. He was the last one to see him alive.