Chapter 4 - THE LEGAL OFFENSIVE
Uncle Marcus wasn’t just a lawyer; he was a former federal prosecutor who now ran a boutique corporate litigation firm in the city. He arrived at my parents' house three hours later, carrying a battered leather briefcase and smelling of espresso and expensive cigars. He listened quietly as I walked him through the financial records, the forged digital authorizations, and the intricate web of shell companies I had uncovered.
"This is classic layering," Marcus muttered, adjusting his glasses as he scrolled through the data I had exported. "They're moving the funds through three different holding companies before washing it offshore. And you're right, Camila. Your digital signature is attached to the final release forms. If the SEC or the IRS audits them, you go to federal prison. Beatriz stays in her mansion."
My mother gasped, covering her mouth. My father’s face turned into a mask of pure stone. "Can we prove she stole her credentials?" he asked, his voice deathly quiet.
"Yes," I answered before Marcus could. "Because I kept a separate log. I'm an analyst. I never trust a single point of failure. Every time I logged into the system, I mirrored the IP addresses and timestamped my physical location using my phone's GPS data. I can prove I was at a doctor's appointment, a family dinner, or asleep when these transfers were authorized from the main office IP."
Marcus looked at me, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "You beautiful, brilliant girl. You have the smoking gun."
"I don't just want a defense," I said, looking Marcus dead in the eye. "I want an offensive. I want to freeze their assets. I want a forensic audit of the entire Reyes Investment Group. And I want the divorce papers served simultaneously."
"We need to move quickly," Marcus advised. "Once the police follow up on the assault charge, Beatriz might panic and try to wipe the servers. I'm going to file an ex parte motion for a temporary restraining order on the corporate accounts, citing immediate risk of financial fraud and spousal asset dissipation."
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of legal maneuvers executed in absolute secrecy. I signed affidavits, provided my digital logs, and drafted a bulletproof narrative of the accounting fraud. We were building a bomb, and Beatriz was completely oblivious, sitting in her ivory tower, believing she had successfully swatted away a minor nuisance.
On Thursday morning, the trap was set. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was Andrés. I let it ring. Then he sent a text.
May you like
Camila, I'm coming over. We are settling this today. My mother is furious, and this police thing is getting out of hand. You need to come home and fix this.
I stared at the screen, feeling nothing but profound pity for the man I once loved. He had no idea that the home he wanted me to return to was about to be seized by federal authorities. I typed my first reply to him in a week: Come over. Let's talk.
