Chapter 5
Chapter 5: The Prison Protocol
The glass partition at the maximum-security state penitentiary was scratched, smudged, and smelled of industrial bleach. On the other side, Tomás looked unrecognizable. The five-thousand-dollar cashmere coat was replaced by a coarse orange jumpsuit. His manicured hair had been shaved to the scalp, exposing a jagged scar Daniel had never seen before.
Yet, Tomás was smiling. It was the smile of a man who knew a secret that could burn the world down.
"You look tired, big bro," Tomás chuckled, his voice rattling through the cheap plastic intercom. "Running a dynasty keeping you up? Or is the guilt finally catching up to you?"
"Who is behind The Phoenix Directive, Tomás?" Daniel asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He leaned forward, pressing his palm against the glass. "I know the money is moving. I know the forgery of my signature on Clara’s medical papers was too clean to be your work. You're a lot of things, brother, but you aren't a master hacker. You didn't have the codes."
Tomás leaned in so close his breath fogged the glass. "You always thought you were the smartest one because you walked away to play hero. But you only saw the stage, Daniel. You never saw the puppeteer."
"Give me a name, Tomás. I can move you to a low-security facility. I can protect you."
"Protect me?" Tomás laughed hysterically, drawing the eyes of the tower guards. "No one protects anyone from them. You think Mom and Dad were so desperate for Alejandro just because of a thirty-seven percent corporate trust? Money is cheap, Daniel. Power is cheaper. It’s what is coded inside that kid's legal birthright. A blood lock. The real fortune doesn't belong to the Mendozas. We aren't the owners. We are just the caretakers."
May you like
Daniel stood up, slamming his hand against the counter. The heavy plastic rattled. "Who owns it?!"
Tomás backed away, his smile vanishing into a look of genuine, stark terror. "Ask Clara about her medical history before she met you, Daniel. Ask her about the clinic in Geneva. Ask her why a poor waitress had a Swiss medical visa when she was nineteen."
