PART 1: THE OFFICE DIEGO SHOULD NEVER HAVE IGNORED
The house was so quiet that Mariana could hear the hum of the refrigerator and the distant echo of cars on Paseo de la Reforma.
She took off her rubber gloves, left them by the sink, and walked toward the wine cellar.
At first glance, it was an elegant room with antique bottles, dark wood shelves, and a table for private tastings. Diego rarely went in there. He said he was bored by “the whims of old rich people.”
Mariana removed an empty bottle of añejo tequila from the third shelf and pressed a small metal disc hidden behind it.
A wooden panel opened silently.
Behind it was a private elevator.
Mariana stepped in.
The elevator mirror reflected an image Diego had never truly seen: a 37-year-old woman, tired, hurt, but not defeated.
When the doors opened one floor below, the humiliated wife vanished.
The underground office was illuminated by screens, legal files, investment maps, secure lines, and monitors connected to offices in Monterrey, Guadalajara, New York, and Madrid. The discreet logo of the Castañeda Council appeared on one wall.
Mariana walked to a walnut desk and picked up a dark green telephone.
She dialed a number.
A man’s voice answered on the first ring.
“Mrs. Castañeda.”
Very few people in Mexico called her that.
“Arturo, is everything ready for tonight?”
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