Chapter 3 - The Feast of the OutcastsThe word forgery hung in the air like a death sentence.
Licenciado Alatorre didn't wait to hear more. He knew the law, and more importantly, he knew the kind of prison sentence that came with executing a fraudulent property transfer for a wealthy, angry man who had the evidence on video.
"I... I think there has been a administrative error," Alatorre stammered, backing down the steps toward his Mercedes. "Patricia, do not call me again. Mr. Ramírez, I had no knowledge of any fraudulent activity. Goodnight."
"Wait! Alatorre, don't leave!" Patricia screamed, running to the doorway, but the lawyer’s car was already roaring down the street, disappearing into the Lomas de Chapultepec night.
Diego closed the heavy doors with a solid, echoing thud. He locked them, then turned to face his family.
The two men who had been dancing with Patricia and drinking Diego’s expensive tequila were now standing near the back window, looking for an exit.
"Get out," Diego told them. He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer menace in his eyes was enough.
The two men didn't ask questions. They grabbed their jackets and slipped out through the side garden door, leaving Doña Carmen and Patricia standing alone in the middle of the ruined party.
Diego walked over to the dining table. It was laden with premium cuts of meat, imported cheeses, bottles of high-end tequila, and a cake that had "Happy Birthday, Carmen" written in gold frosting.
With one slow, deliberate sweep of his arm, Diego knocked three expensive bottles of tequila off the table. They shattered against the marble floor, the sharp smell of alcohol filling the room.
Doña Carmen gasped, covering her mouth. "Diego! What are you doing? That rug is Persian! It cost—"
"I don't care what it cost," Diego said. He walked to the entrance of the living room and held out his hand. "Mariana. Valeria. Mateo. Come here."
Mariana hesitated, her eyes darting to Doña Carmen, who was glaring at her with pure, unadulterated hatred. But when Diego’s hand remained extended, steady and warm, she took a deep breath and walked into the living room, leading the children.
"Sit," Diego said, pointing to the high-backed leather chairs around the mahogany table.
"Diego, they are dirty!" Patricia snapped, her fear momentarily giving way to her usual snobbery. "Look at their clothes! They're going to ruin the upholstery!"
Diego turned his gaze to his sister. It was a look so cold it made Patricia physically recoil.
"My children," Diego said, syllable by syllable, "will sit wherever they want in this house. Because their father paid for every single thread of fabric, every stone of this floor, and every drop of water in the pipes. Sit down, my loves."
Valeria and Mateo climbed into the luxurious chairs, their small, dirt-streaked hands resting on the polished wood. They looked at the food as if it were a mirage, too afraid to touch it.
Diego pulled a clean silver platter toward his children. He piled it high with the finest meat, the fresh bread, and the fruits.
"Eat," Diego whispered, his voice cracking with emotion as he knelt beside Mateo. "Eat as much as you want. You will never, ever have to eat behind this house again."
The children didn't wait. They began to eat with a desperate hunger that broke Diego's heart. Mariana sat beside them, tears silently streaming down her face as she chewed a piece of meat, her shoulders shaking with five years of repressed pain.
Doña Carmen watched them, her face twisting into a mask of bitter resentment. "Diego, you are being dramatic. We never let them starve. Mariana is lazy. She refused to work, she refused to help around the house. I had to maintain this place! I had to pay the servants, the electricity, the security!"
"With what money, Mom?" Diego stood up, pulling a stack of folded papers from his inner jacket pocket. "I sent you fifteen thousand dollars every single month. That’s nearly three hundred thousand pesos a month. In five years, I sent you over nine hundred thousand dollars. Where is it?"
"The inflation..." Doña Carmen stammered, her eyes darting away. "The taxes... the upkeep..."
"No," Diego said, pointing to the expensive designer bags piled near the couch, the gold jewelry dripping from his sister’s neck, and the brand-new SUV keys sitting on the counter. "You spent it on yourselves. You treated my wife like a servant and my children like dogs, while you lived like queens on the blood and sweat I spilled in the Texas heat."
May you like
He stepped closer to his mother, his shadow completely enveloping her.
"You have twenty-four hours to pack your bags," Diego said, his voice a lethal whisper. "Both of you. Because tomorrow, I am changing the locks. And if I see either of you near my wife or my children again, I won't just call the police. I will release this video to every news channel in the city."
