Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
“Where to?” I asked, settling into the back seat beside Scarlett.
“Centro San Martín de Porres,” she replied without hesitation. “The charity I first went to for help.”
She leaned forward and gave the driver the address. It sat just outside Madrid’s main sprawl, near older neighborhoods.
The drive took less than thirty minutes. Traffic thinned as we left the center of the city, replaced by low stucco buildings and aging industrial lots. The charity campus rose ahead of us, modest but sprawling; the main structure was made of old stone with a newer addition attached at the rear.
Scarlett guided us around the side.
“There,” she said, pointing toward a storage shed built so close to the original building that only a few inches separated them.
The driver parked near a row of hedges.
Scarlett stepped out first, and I followed.
Her shoulders were tense. “If they found it…they would’ve gotten rid of it.”
“I bet no one found it,” I said.
She glanced at me.
I pulled out my phone and switched on the flashlight. The narrow gap between the shed and the building was cluttered with debris and windblown trash. Cobwebs clung to the brick.
Scarlett crouched first.
“I shoved it back there,” she murmured.
The beam caught black plastic wedged deep in the gap.
She inhaled sharply. “That’s it.”
I reached in and dragged the bundle free. The trash bag was tied tight and coated in dust, but intact.
“Let’s go,” I said.
We returned to the car without another word.
“Somewhere quiet,” I told the driver.
“Casa de Campo,” Scarlett suggested. “There are areas near the lake that aren’t crowded this time of day.”
The driver nodded and pulled away.
We parked beneath a canopy of trees overlooking the water. Morning light filtered through the leaves, casting shifting patterns across the hood.
Scarlett sat with the bag in her lap for a moment before opening it.
Inside were the papers—creased but dry.
She exhaled and began sorting through them.
“They’re mostly in Spanish,” she said, flipping to the first page. “Financial transfers. Dates. Account numbers.”
I leaned closer. My Spanish was good enough for a restaurant menu and a street argument. Not for forensic accounting.
She translated aloud as she read.
“Monasterio de San Juan de la Cruz…donations listed as cultural preservation.” She turned the page. “Amounts in the millions. Multiple wire transfers.”
I scanned the letterhead and the routing numbers.
“This isn’t charity money,” I said.
She kept reading.
“Different countries. UK. United States. Saudi Arabia. Hungary. Russia. Venezuela. Colombia. El Salvador.”
My jaw tightened.
“These aren’t small donors,” she continued. “These are corporate accounts.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed Nik.
He answered on the second ring. “Tell me you found something.”
“We did,” I said. “Financial records tied to the monastery. Large transfers with international routing numbers.”
“Good,” he replied. “Take pictures of what you got and use the secure upload app.”
Scarlett moved closer so she could help.
I opened the encrypted app Nik had installed on my phone.
It routed through a private server he controlled, masked behind multiple international nodes.
He instructed us to lay each page flat against the seat and photograph it within the app.
The software stripped metadata automatically and generated a hash for verification before transmission.
“Protect those original documents,” Nik warned. “And don’t connect to public Wi-Fi.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I muttered.
Scarlett worked carefully, translating as she went. Nik stayed on the line, searching the names and numbers in real time.
Then he went quiet.
“That name just made things interesting,” he said.
“Which one?” I asked.
“ Franklin Whitaker. CEO of Eveline & Co.”
Scarlett frowned. “That’s a global fashion brand. They make lingerie and cosmetics.”
“I know exactly what it is,” Nik replied. “And he’s not just a donor. Payments trace back to shell companies connected to him.”
Scarlett continued scanning the pages.
“What else?” I pressed.
Nik exhaled slowly. “There are transfers from accounts tied to U.S. presidents. Crown princes in the UK and Saudi Arabia. Heads of state from Hungary and Russia. South American political families. Tech executives. Media conglomerates. The list doesn’t end.”
I stared at the water.
“This monastery isn’t a monastery,” I said.
“No,” Nik agreed. “It’s a funnel.”
“For what?” Scarlett asked.
Nik hesitated. “That’s the problem. The money flows in, but I’m not seeing outgoing transfers tied to shipments or any indication of what’s being bought. Not yet.”
“So we have fund transfers,” I said. “But no proof of why.”
“Correct,” Nik replied. “Right now, this looks like money laundering on a global scale. But the volume and the secrecy suggest it could be something bigger.”
Scarlett lowered the last page.
“Sex trafficking,” she said quietly.
Nik didn’t answer directly. “You have evidence of financial corruption. That alone is explosive. But you don’t yet have documentation linking it to trafficking.”
I closed my eyes for a brief second.
“We need more,” I said.
“Yes,” Nik replied.
Scarlett met my gaze.
She didn’t need to say it.
We were going back to the place she dreaded most.
“Thanks, Nik. Will update you when we know more,” I said, ending the call.
The documents sat stacked between us on the back seat, the air inside the car thick with what we’d just uncovered.
I closed the secure app on my phone and slipped it into my jacket.
“I’m going alone,” I said.
Scarlett turned toward me slowly. “No.”
“Yes.”
Her jaw tightened. “This is my situation, Lucian. Not yours.”
“It became mine the second you told me what they did to you.”
She shook her head. “You don’t get to claim that.”
The driver stared straight ahead, pretending not to listen.
Scarlett leaned closer to me. “I’m the one who lived under their control. I’m the one who lost years of my life because of my father.” Her voice didn’t waver. “They stole my teenage years. My proms. My college experience. The years when life is supposed to be free and stupid and fun.”
I watched her hands curl into fists on her lap.
“They took that from me,” she continued. “For no reason other than I was inconvenient to my father’s political ambitions. He put me there. He created the circumstances that made me have to fight to survive.”
She held my gaze. “And now, he’s the one who put me in a position to fight back.”
I said nothing.
“Let’s be honest,” she went on. “Men with that kind of money don’t wire millions to a monastery because they love stained glass.
It’s transactional. It always is. And the only kind of transactions that require this much secrecy are sex trafficking, drugs, or arms deals. At that level, it’s got to be women.”
Her voice sharpened. “This is my fight. My retribution. I won’t sit in a car while you handle it and then tell me I’m protected.”
“You are protected,” I said evenly.
“I’m not helpless,” she shot back. “And I refuse to feel that way again.”
I kept my tone steady. “You’ve already paid for your father’s sins. You don’t owe the world more blood.”
She stared at me. “You think this is about owing?”
“It’s about what’s best for you,” I replied. “You’re just starting to heal. I won’t risk that. I won’t risk you.”
Her expression hardened. “And what if something happens to you?”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
I leaned forward slightly. “If any blood gets spilled today, it will be theirs.”
Her voice dropped. “If you force me to stay behind, you break every ounce of trust we’ve built. Don’t ruin that by deciding you know what’s best for me.”
I studied her for a long moment.
“I know the monastery,” she continued. “It’s medieval with narrow corridors and hidden passages. Rooms that don’t exist on official plans. If you walk in there blind, they can trap you.”
“I won’t walk in blind.”
“You haven’t lived there,” she said. “I have.”
She reached out and touched my cheek, her hand warm against my skin. “You’re the only person I have in this world. If you die, then I die.”
Her words were a gut punch that landed just how she intended.
“Neither of us is going to die,” I said quietly.
I held her gaze. “My soul is already charred. I’ve done things I won’t ever walk back from. You still have a chance to live clean.”
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Clean left the building a long time ago.”
Silence settled between us.
I exhaled slowly. “I don’t like this.”
“I don’t need you to like it.”
“You understand the risks.”
“I understand it better than you do.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I opened my hand between us.
She didn’t hesitate. She slapped her palm against mine.
I closed my fingers around hers.
“Fine,” I said. “We do this together.”
Her shoulders squared.
“Let’s do this thing,” I added.
I leaned forward and gave the driver a short nod.
“To the monastery.”
The engine started.
And we drove.
The driver stopped short of the main entrance and eased the car into a narrow service road half-hidden by cypress trees.
Monasterio de San Juan de la Cruz rose behind its outer wall like something built to survive siege rather than prayer—a medieval compound of pale granite blocks stacked thick and unadorned, the stone wall running along the road.
From the street, only the perimeter wall was visible.
It enclosed an austere fortress, wrapping whatever lay inside—cloisters, courtyards, cells—hidden behind centuries-old masonry meant to keep the world out and the faithful in.
Scarlett turned to me. “There’s a hidden door not too far from here,” she said quietly. “It’s used for quiet deliveries. Most people don’t notice it.”
I grabbed the small backpack from the floorboard and slung it over my shoulder. Before stepping out, I checked both pistols. Seated, loaded, and hidden beneath my jacket.
Scarlett doubled-tied the knots in her boots and nodded toward an area near the tree line.