Chapter 2 - The Return to the Pantheon
The drive from Santa Fe back to the Panteón Español was an exercise in controlled fury. Sebastián drove his black armored SUV through the late afternoon traffic of the Periférico like a man running a blockade. In the passenger seat, Inés sat perfectly rigid, her eyes fixed on the digital dashboard, her thin fingers continuously tracing the contours of the leather seat as if trying to reorient herself with luxury. In the back row, Toño sat quietly, his eyes wide as he stared at the security monitors built into the headrests, a half-eaten sleeve of crackers from the center console clutched in his fist.
"The city has changed," Inés murmured as they passed the glittering new developments of Nuevo Polanco. "More glass. More walls. More places to hide the things you don't want the voters to see."
"It’s the same city, Mom," Sebastián said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Just with better public relations."
When the SUV slammed to a halt outside the main gates of the historic cemetery in Tacuba, the scene was chaotic. Two police cruisers were parked on the sidewalk, their blue and red lights painting the gray stone walls of the pantheon in rhythmic, violent flashes. A crowd of reporters from Reforma and Televisa, who had originally come to cover the high-society funeral of an industrial matriarch, were now pressed against the iron railings, their cameras pointed at the northern driveway.
Through the crowd, Sebastián saw his brother’s gray armored Suburban wedged directly against the side of a white logistics van. The front bumper of the Suburban was crushed, smoke drifting from the radiator—Castillo had followed the order to the letter.
Sebastián stepped out of the vehicle, opening the rear door for his mother. He didn't care about the reporters. He didn't care about the flashes of light that instantly erupted around them. He threw his arm around Inés’s thin shoulders, shielding her from the media surge as Castillo and three other private security guards formed a moving wall around them.
"Is that... is that Inés Aranda?" a reporter yelled, his microphone extending over the guard's shoulder. "Mr. Aranda! Who is the woman in the vehicle? Was the funeral a hoax?"
Mauro was standing near the chapel steps, surrounded by three corporate lawyers from the firm of Aranda & Associates. His tie was slightly askew, his pale face flushed with an ugly, dark rage as he shouted at a police captain who was holding a clipboard.
"I am the executor of the estate!" Mauro roared, his voice bouncing off the stone mausoleums. "The remains were verified by the state forensic service! My brother is experiencing a psychotic break due to grief! You have no legal right to detain this transport—"
Mauro’s voice died in his throat.
He stopped mid-sentence as the security detail opened up, allowing Sebastián and Inés to step onto the clean, gravel path of the central aisle.
The three hundred high-society guests who had remained in the pews—business partners, politicians, old friends from the country club—slowly began to spill out onto the grass, their murmurs rising into a collective, deafening gasp.
Mauro took two steps back, his hands dropping to his sides. His eyes scanned his mother from her wrapped, dirty feet up to the silver hair, finally locking onto the gold hummingbird necklace resting against her gray sweater. The color drained from his skin until he looked more like a corpse than whatever was inside the mahogany coffin behind him.
"No," Mauro whispered, his chest expanding as he tried to find his voice. "No, this is a setup. This is a digital theater. Sebastián, who did you hire? Who is this vagrant?"
Inés stepped out from behind her oldest son. She didn't look like a victim anymore. Despite the dirt on her face, her posture straightened, the old, aristocratic elegance of the Villalba lineage surfacing through the grime of five years in the ravines.
"Hello, Mauro," she said, her voice clear, sharp, and carrying perfectly through the deadened silence of the cemetery. "You look surprised to see me. Did you think the ravine in Santa Fe wasn't deep enough? Or did you just assume the winter cold would have finished the job your father started before he died?"
Licenciada Montiel, the family's primary corporate counsel, stepped forward from the chapel doors, a digital tablet in her hand. Her face was grim, but her eyes were fixed on Mauro. "The Public Ministry has just issued a federal suspension order for the death certificate, Mauro. The federal forensics team is arriving now to open that coffin. And they aren't looking for Inés Aranda anymore. They are looking for the identity of the person you put in her place to clear the probate courts."
Mauro looked around at the guests, at the reporters, at the cameras that were recording his every breath. He looked at his lawyers, but the three men had already stepped away from him, their briefcases held in front of them like shields as they dissolved into the crowd.
"Sebastián," Mauro said, his voice dropping into a desperate, frantic hiss as he stepped closer to his brother. "Think about the stock price. Aranda Logistics has a five-hundred-million-dollar bond issuance scheduled for Thursday on the Mexican Stock Exchange. If this hits the wire... if the market thinks we simulated a death to manipulate the asset trust... we are bankrupt by Friday morning."
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Sebastián looked at his brother—the boy he had protected in boarding school, the man he had given a vice-chairmanship to despite his constant operational failures.
"The company is already gone, Mauro," Sebastián said, turning his back on him. "Now, let’s talk about the murder."
