Chapter 3 - Caught in the Vault
"Well, well, well. Look who’s playing detective."
The voice floated down into the damp chill of the vault—smooth, arrogant, and dripping with an oily condescension I would recognize anywhere.
I spun around. Standing at the top of the concrete steps, framed by the pale glare of the backyard floodlights, was my brother Derek. He had a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, his expensive designer jacket slung over his shoulder, and a lazy, triumphant smirk plastered across his face. Beside him, leaning against the doorframe with a cigarette dangling from her fingers, stood his wife Veronica.
"Derek," I said, my voice dangerously low as I stepped away from the worktable. "You’ve got some nerve calling yourself the owner of this property."
Derek took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes scanning the cluttered room before locking onto our father with undisguised contempt. "Oh, cut the dramatic garbage, Leo. You always did think you were the golden boy of the family, flying off to the city, making partner at your little firm, leaving old Manuel and Carmen to rot in this moldy town while I stayed behind to manage the real business."
"The real business being financial fraud?" I shot back, stepping toward the stairs. "I’ve already frozen the accounts, Derek. And Inez is pulling every single filing you’ve submitted under Dad’s name for the last twenty-four months. You’re done."
Derek didn't flinch. In fact, the smirk on his face only widened. He took another deliberate sip of his drink and chuckled.
"Frozen the accounts?" Derek repeated, shaking his head as if he were talking to an ignorant child. "Which accounts, little brother? The personal ones? Sure, go ahead and lock down Dad's pension. It was dry anyway. But the corporate escrow account holding the three-million-dollar developer buyout? That was transferred offshore twelve hours ago."
Manuel staggered forward, his hands gripping the edge of the oak table. "You sold the workshop, Derek? You sold the land where I built my first table?"
"I didn't just sell it, Dad," Veronica chimed in from the doorway, her voice sharp as broken glass. "We cleared the title legally. Your signature is right there on the notarized deed. Or did you forget what you signed back in January when we took you to that nice notary in town?"
"You lied to him," I hissed, taking two fast steps up the stairs toward my brother. "You told him it was medical paperwork for Mom's insurance!"
Derek’s expression hardened instantly. The lazy smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory glint. He set his whiskey glass down on the concrete ledge, raised his right hand, and snapped his fingers twice.
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From the shadows behind the garage, two heavy-set men in dark windbreakers stepped into view, blocking the exit of the cellar entirely. They weren't local handymen. They had the heavy, silent stride of professional enforcers.
"You really should have stayed in the city, Leo," Derek said coldly, nodding to the two men. "Lock them in. Let's see how much legal advice you can give from the bottom of a locked hole."
