Someone was standing just outside the door.

The door handle began to turn.

The door handle clicked.

My father gripped the edge of the metal desk so hard his knuckles turned white.

Beside him, Ramiro stood perfectly still, his eyes locked on the glowing grid of security monitors.

On the screen displaying the study, the heavy mahogany door swung open.

It was Martina.

She stood in the doorway, wearing her oversized grey sweater, her fingers nervously twisting the hem.

Patricia’s expression changed in a fraction of a second.

The cold, sharp lines of her face melted into a soft, concerned smile.

“Martina, darling,” Patricia said, her voice dripping with warmth. “What are you doing up so late?”

The man beside her, whom I now recognized as a corrupt notary named Julian Vance, quietly slid the blue folder under a leather blotter.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Martina said, her voice barely audible through the hidden microphone. “I was looking for Dad.”

“Your father is busy downstairs in the wine cellar with some clients,” Patricia said, stepping forward to block Martina’s view of the desk. “You know how he gets when he starts talking about his vintages.”