Chapter 6 - The Family Table
Sebastian insisted on a family dinner.
Mateo knew it was theater.
He went anyway.
The old Vargas estate stood on forty wooded acres outside Bellhaven, untouched by the Blackridge fire that had destroyed Elena’s nearby home.
Sebastian sat at the head of Rafael Vargas’s dining table.
Adrian Vale sat to his right.
When Mateo entered with Aurelio, the attorney’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
That reaction told Mateo almost everything he needed to know.
Adrian recovered quickly.
“Mateo. And this must be…”
“Aurelio Mendoza,” Aurelio said.
Adrian’s face tightened.
Sebastian gestured toward a chair.
“Sit.”
Aurelio remained standing.
“My grandmother didn’t like either of you.”
Sebastian exhaled.
“Charming.”
Mateo sat beside Aurelio.
Rachel joined them.
Marcus remained against the wall.
Vincent had refused to attend.
He had driven to his father’s home instead.
Sebastian poured wine.
“We need to discuss the damage this situation could cause.”
Aurelio frowned.
“To me?”
“To everyone.”
Mateo said, “Interesting order of priorities.”
Sebastian ignored him.
“The media will discover the boy’s existence. They’ll speculate about the trust, Elena’s shares, Rivergate.”
“You already know about the trust,” Aurelio said.
Sebastian gave him a thin smile.
“I helped administer this family before you could walk.”
“I could walk before you buried me.”
Silence struck the table.
Adrian cleared his throat.
“No one buried you deliberately.”
Aurelio looked at him.
“You filed the papers.”
Adrian’s glass touched the table too hard.
Rachel watched.
Sebastian turned toward Mateo.
“You’ve been discussing confidential documents with a child?”
“He is the subject of those documents.”
“He is twelve.”
“He survived eleven years without our permission. I suspect he can survive information.”
Sebastian’s temper appeared.
“This is not some heroic rescue story, Mateo.”
“No.”
Mateo leaned forward.
“It’s a murder story.”
Adrian stood.
“That accusation is reckless.”
“Sit down.”
“I will not—”
Mateo’s voice dropped.
“Sit.”
Adrian sat.
Mateo placed a photocopy of Esperanza’s ledger on the table.
He did not reveal which pages they possessed.
Adrian looked at it.
Sebastian did not.
That interested Mateo.
“You recognize it?” Mateo asked.
“No.”
“You haven’t looked closely.”
“I don’t need to.”
Aurelio whispered, “That means yes.”
Sebastian slammed his palm onto the table.
“That is enough.”
Aurelio flinched.
Mateo stood immediately.
“Don’t raise your voice at him.”
Sebastian laughed without humor.
“You’ve known this boy four days.”
“He is Elena’s son.”
“You don’t know that.”
Mateo stared.
There it was.
Not surprise.
Not doubt.
Preparation.
“What would convince you?”
Sebastian replied too quickly.
“A court.”
Rachel spoke.
“A court may soon hear the matter.”
Adrian’s expression changed.
“Rachel, you should understand the consequences of challenging a settled estate.”
“I understand fraud has no statute of repose when it’s actively concealed under certain circumstances.”
Adrian’s lips tightened.
Aurelio watched adults speak legal language like weapons.
Then Sebastian turned toward him.
“Do you know what happens if you pursue this?”
Aurelio stared back.
“You tell me.”
“Reporters follow you. Lawyers tear apart your grandmother’s life. People claim you are lying. They ask where you slept, what you stole to survive, whether Esperanza manipulated you.”
Mateo’s chair scraped backward.
“Sebastian.”
But Aurelio answered first.
“My grandma washed hotel sheets for fourteen years.”
Sebastian went quiet.
“She cleaned houses when her hands hurt. She kept every receipt in envelopes. She gave me food when she didn’t eat.”
Aurelio’s eyes filled.
“If rich lawyers want to call her a liar, they can say it while I’m standing there.”
Nobody spoke.
Aurelio pushed away from the table.
“I’m done.”
Mateo followed.
In the hallway, Aurelio whispered, “He’s scared.”
“Sebastian?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“He never asked if I remembered the fire.”
Mateo stopped.
The boy continued.
“If he thought I was fake, he’d ask me questions.”
Aurelio looked back toward the dining room.
“But he already believes I’m me.”
Across town, Vincent stood on his father’s porch.
Calvin Cross was seventy, broad-shouldered and silver-haired.
He stared at the ledger photocopy Vincent held.
“Where did you get that?”
“So you recognize it.”
Calvin’s face went gray.
“Son.”
“Did you alter the Blackridge report?”
“Go home.”
“Did you take money?”
“Go home.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“A twelve-year-old kid lived on the streets because somebody declared him dead.”
Calvin’s eyes suddenly sharpened.
“Where is he?”
Vincent froze.
Not who is he.
Not what boy.
Where is he.
Calvin realized his mistake.
Vincent stepped backward.
His father whispered, “You have no idea what you’ve brought back.”
Then the lights inside Calvin’s house went out.
A red laser dot appeared briefly on the wall beside Vincent’s chest.
Calvin grabbed his son and pulled him to the floor.
A suppressed gunshot shattered the porch lamp.
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Someone was no longer protecting the old conspiracy.
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