Chapter 4 - The Web of Deceit
The door swung open, and for the first time, I saw the man pulling Ramiro’s strings.
El Alacrán wasn't a street thug. He was dressed in a pristine white linen shirt, gold rings glittering on his fingers, his eyes cold and dead like a shark's. Behind him stood Ramiro, pale and sweating, still clutching the syringe, and Brenda, who was watching from the hallway with a look of malicious anticipation.
“So this is the wife,” El Alacrán said, stepping into the room. He didn't look at the filth or the moldy food. He looked directly at me, evaluating me like a piece of property. “The one who works in the desert to buy houses for ungrateful men.”
“Leave her alone,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “The money isn't in Veracruz. It’s still in an offshore account in Doha. You can’t touch it without my signature and a biometric scan.”
It was a lie, of course, but I needed to buy time. Every second I kept them talking was a second closer to the police sirens.
Ramiro stepped forward, his face twisted in panic. “She’s lying! She wouldn't come back without the money! She’s trying to stall!”
“Shut up, Ramiro,” El Alacrán said without looking back. He took a silver cigar case from his pocket, selected one, and lit it, filling the room with the thick, pungent smell of sweet tobacco, mixing horribly with the odor of decay. “Marisol, right? You’re an intelligent woman. You managed to survive three years in a foreign country alone. You must know that your husband is a fool.”
I didn't answer.
“He thinks he’s going to use a life insurance policy to pay me,” El Alacrán continued, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “But I don't like insurance companies. Too much paperwork. Too many investigators. I like cash. You tell me where the bank key is, and I’ll let you take your mother and walk out of this city tonight. I don't care about Ramiro’s little domestic drama.”
“Don’t trust him, Marisol!” Ofelia, my mother-in-law, shouted from the stairs. “She’s going to call the cops! Look at her eyes! She’s not scared!”
Brenda pushed past her mother, her face ugly with jealousy. “Look at her clothes, El Alacrán. Look at her jacket. She thinks she’s better than us now because she has Qatari money. Strip her down. The key is probably sewn into her clothes.”
Ramiro lunged forward, grabbed my shoulder, and ripped my jacket open.
The movement was so violent that the hidden camera button tore from my lapel, bouncing across the concrete floor and rolling straight to El Alacrán’s feet.
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The tiny, pulsing red light faced upward, shining directly onto the criminal’s polished leather shoe.
The room went dead silent.
