Chapter 6
The car’s engine rumbled softly, its sound muted by the heavy German armor.
The interior of the vehicle was plunged into almost total darkness, pierced only by the yellowish beams of streetlights rushing past the windows.
The silence inside the cabin was so thick it carried its own weight—an invisible, suffocating mass that crushed my lungs with every breath.
My hands gripped the leather steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles on my fingers ached. I kept my eyes fixed on the asphalt, wet from the light drizzle that was beginning to fall over S?o Paulo, refusing to look away even for a millimeter.
I didn’t want to look at the passenger seat. I couldn’t.
Maria Rita was huddled against the door, as far away from me as possible.
The sound of her crying—a muffled, broken, and constant sob—filled the space between us.
Hours ago, that sound would have destroyed me.
It would have made me pull the car over to the shoulder, pull her into my lap, and promise that I’d burn the whole world to the ground before letting a single tear fall from her eyes.
But there, her crying filled me with revulsion.
The air conditioning blew cold air, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the smell that permeated the cabin.
It was a sweet, acrid, metallic smell. The smell of my mother’s blood, which still stained the skin and clothes of the woman sitting next to me.
Every time I breathed, the smell invaded my nostrils, bringing back the grotesque image of Eleonora’s broken body at the foot of the staircase.
My mother is dead.
The thought swirled in my head, a sharp blade slicing my sanity into thin slices.
I closed my eyes for a split second, and Eleonora’s voice echoed in my mind, clear and laced with scorn, exactly as it had sounded in the countless arguments we’d had over the past few months.
“You’re a fool, Eduardo. Do you think that girl loves you?
She loves your last name and your credit card.
She’s a con artist, a parasite who saw you as her winning ticket.
The moment she realizes that I’m the only thing standing in the way of her absolute control over this family, she’ll find a way to get rid of me. ”
I swallowed hard, tasting bile burning in my throat.
I’d fought with my mother over her. I’d ignored every warning, every red flag, blinded by the illusion that I’d found purity in the midst of a corrupt world.
What if I were the biggest idiot in the world? What if I’d brought a cold, calculating killer into my own home?
“Eduardo…” Her voice cut through the darkness, fragile and trembling, like glass about to shatter.
I didn’t answer. I stepped on the gas, the engine roaring in response to my pent-up fury.
“Eduardo, please, talk to me,” Maria Rita pleaded, shifting in her seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her reach out her hand toward me.
“Don’t touch me.” My voice came out low, guttural, and dangerous. It was the first time I’d spoken since we left the police station. The tone wasn’t that of a husband; it was that of a tormentor.
She pulled her hand back as if she’d touched a hot coal, sobbing even louder.
“I didn’t do anything… Why are you treating me like this?” she whimpered, her despair seeping from every syllable. “She was your mother; I know you’re suffering, but I didn’t push her! I heard the noise! I swear on my life, I found her there!”
“Shut up!” I snapped, my jaw so tight I was afraid I’d break my own teeth.
“You have to believe me! Lurdes is lying! They hate me, Eduardo—you know they hate me! They’re trying to pin this on me to get rid of me! You know me!”
I slammed on the brakes when the traffic light ahead turned red. The sudden jolt threw us both forward, held in place by our seatbelts.
I slowly turned toward her. The red traffic light filled the car, casting a macabre scarlet glow over Maria Rita’s face. Her eyes were swollen, her pale skin streaked with tears and dirt, her expensive linen dress ruined.
“Do I know you?” I repeated her words, my voice laced with a venom I didn’t know I possessed.
I scrutinized every feature of her face, searching for the innocent girl from the Northeast, the woman who had woken up in my arms whispering that I was her miracle.
But doubt had poisoned the well. I no longer saw purity.
I saw a brilliant actress. “I met a waitress at a resort. I brought you to my house, showered you with jewels, gave you my last name. And the person who opposed this charade—the only one who promised to investigate your past and expose you—conveniently fell down a staircase and broke her neck while she was alone with you.”
Maria Rita’s eyes widened. The shock froze her tears for a second. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Do you think… that I killed your mother for money?” she whispered, horror distorting her features. “My God, Eduardo… you can’t be serious. I love you!”
“Your love reeks of blood, Maria Rita!” I exploded, my rage finally breaking through the dam of my self-control.
I slammed my palm against the steering wheel, and the noise made her flinch.
“She was dead at your feet! Her blood is on your hands! And you have the audacity to cry and play the victim in my car while my mother’s body is on its way to the medical examiner’s office? ”
“I tried to help her!” she screamed back, her voice cracking with hysteria as she cowered against the door.
“You killed her!” I roared, hatred taking complete control of my mind. I needed to blame someone, and all the evidence—both rational and manipulated—pointed to the woman cowering beside me. “My mother was always right. I was blind. An arrogant imbecile who thought he could turn trash into gold.”
The word “trash” hung in the air, heavier and sharper than any blade.
I saw the exact moment her eyes lost their sparkle.
The sheer shock extinguished any remnant of defiance that still existed within her.
Maria Rita turned her face toward the window, covering her mouth with her blood-stained hands to muffle the sound of her own sobs, her body trembling in silent convulsions.
The traffic light turned green. I turned my gaze back to the street and pressed my foot down on the gas pedal.
The rest of the drive was spent in that deathly silence. The rain intensified, pounding against the windshield, while the darkness of the night swallowed the streets of Morumbi. I drove on autopilot, my mind empty of everything except the unyielding certainty of what I needed to do.
I wouldn’t let the police handle this at the slow pace of the justice system; I couldn’t bear to look at her face every day, sit at the same table, or share the same roof with the woman who had taken my mother’s life. My grief demanded immediate action. It demanded retribution.
When the mansion’s iron gates opened for my car, the police cars had already left. The police tape was still there, marking the crime scene.
I stopped the car at the entrance, unlocked the doors, and looked out into the rainy darkness. The decision was made. My home had been desecrated, and I would root out the evil that very dawn, whatever the cost.