Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
The front door swung open, and the loud, cheerful voices of extended family members filled the hallway. Aunt Elena marched in carrying a massive tray of tamales, chattering about the terrible traffic on Avenida Vallarta. cousins laughed, kids dropped gift bags by the tree, and the festive illusion of the Guadalajara household snapped back into place with terrifying speed.
Diego walked into the hallway, his face instantly shifting into his practiced influencer grin, holding his phone up in selfie mode.
"Hey, family! Welcome, welcome! Look who's here!" Diego beamed, panning the camera toward the newly arrived aunts and uncles.
Paola and Miguel walked out of the guest room. Miguel held sleeping Emiliano securely in one arm; with his other hand, he held his phone up, displaying the live-streamed archive file he had just successfully screen-recorded and backed up to an encrypted cloud server.
Marta saw them first. Her smile faltered. "Oh... you're still here? I thought you were leaving in such a rush."
"We were," Miguel said, his voice cutting through the festive noise of the hallway with the sharp authority of a trauma commander. "Wallet, keys, and proof. We were waiting for the right moment to collect them."
Diego lowered his phone a fraction of an inch, his eyes darting nervously toward his brother. "What are you talking about, man? Come on, we're live. Don't be dramatic for the chat."
"Turn the camera off, Diego," Miguel said. It wasn't a request. It was an order that commanded the entire room to halt.
Aunt Elena stopped unwrapping her tamale tray. The cousins near the tree froze. The silence that fell over the house was entirely different from the earlier quiet—it was the heavy, suffocating silence before a hurricane hits.
"I said, turn it off," Miguel repeated, stepping forward until he stood mere feet from his brother. "Unless you want your entire audience—all fifty thousand live viewers currently watching this backup mirror stream—to hear what you, Mom, and Dad were discussing in the dining room five minutes ago."
Diego’s face drained of color. The ring light behind him seemed to hum with sudden, aggressive intensity. "You... what?"
"The stream didn't cut, little brother," Miguel said smoothly, pulling up the audio file on his screen and pressing play.
—idiot doesn't even know how much money we're skimming from the old man's real estate trust... Once we liquidate the Guadalajara property next month, we'll transfer the remainder to your account in Miami, Diego...
The clear, unmistakable voices of Marta and Raúl echoed loudly off the tile floor for every relative in the room to hear.
Marta gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Raúl stumbled up from his chair, his face turning a deep, furious crimson. "Miguel! How dare you spy on family!"
"Spy?" Miguel laughed, a cold, humorless sound. "You were broadcasting to the entire internet on Diego’s public channel. You robbed me, you manipulated Dad into signing over properties behind my back while I was working double shifts on the highway, and you treat my son like an animal for your amusement."
Diego lunged forward, trying to grab Miguel’s phone. "Give me that!"
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Miguel didn't flinch. With the effortless reflexes of a man who regularly subdued violent trauma patients, he caught Diego’s wrist mid-air, twisted him cleanly away from the baby, and shoved him back against the Christmas tree. Ornaments shattered against the floor, raining red and gold glitter over Diego’s expensive designer sneakers.
"Touch me or my son again," Miguel whispered into his brother's ear, "and the next livestream from this house will be broadcast from a federal holding cell."
