Chapter 3 - The Audit of Blood
The party inside the villa didn't end until 2:30 in the morning. I spent those hours sitting in the small, windowless storage room near the garage—the only room my mother hadn't redecorated with gold trim because she used it to store the empty liquor boxes and broken furniture.
Amara and the children were asleep on a thin foam mattress I had dragged from the old guest house. I stayed awake, the light from my phone screen illuminating the bank statements that stretched back over the last forty-eight months.
Every transfer I had sent from the construction firm in Riyadh was listed in neat, digital columns. Five thousand dollars a month. Six thousand during the holiday seasons. A special transfer of ten thousand dollars two years ago for "Maya’s private tutor and medical insurance."
Next to each deposit was the withdrawal record.
Withdrawal: Westlake Luxury Boutique – $2,400. Withdrawal: Country Club Membership Renewal – $1,800. Withdrawal: Apex Auto Lease (Cynthia Rossi) – $1,200 monthly.
There was not a single transaction for a local school, a pediatric clinic, or a grocery distributor. My mother had managed the fund like a personal venture capital firm, using my sweat and blood to finance Cynthia’s entry into the city's high society while my biological children were treated like an inconvenient secret kept in the servant quarters.
At 7:00 AM, the villa was silent, the air heavy with the stale, sour smell of last night’s debauchery. I walked into the grand kitchen, my boots making a sharp, rhythmic sound against the marble.
My mother was already awake, sitting at the island counter in a silk robe, sipping black coffee while her personal maid—the young girl from the night before—scrubbed the grease stains from the stove. Beatrice looked hungover, her skin sallow without the makeup, her hands trembling slightly as she set her porcelain cup down.
"Daniel," she murmured, trying to summon the warm, maternal smile from the previous evening. "You're up early. I told the girl to go to the market to buy some fresh fruit for you."
"Don't bother, Mom," I said, sitting on the high leather barstool opposite her. I set the leather pouch flat on the granite counter. The thud of the ledger pages against the stone was loud in the quiet kitchen. "I’ve been reviewing the family account."
Beatrice’s hand froze over her coffee cup. The maid stopped scrubbing, her shoulders tensing as she slowly slid out the back door to give us space.
"The bank gave me the full transaction history during my transit," I said, my voice conversational, level, and completely dead. "I noticed the ten thousand dollars I sent for Maya’s medical care two years ago was spent at a jewelry store downtown. The registration for the new SUV in the driveway is listed under Cynthia’s name, but the down payment came from the school tuition fund I sent in March."
Beatrice’s face tightened, the guilt on her features quickly hardening into the sharp, defensive anger of a matriarch whose authority was being questioned by a subordinate.
"How dare you come into this house and talk to me like an auditor, Daniel!" she hissed, leaning over the counter, her gold bangles clinking against the granite. "I raised you! I spent twenty years breaking my back to make sure you had a shirt on your back before you ever went to that desert! If I choose to spend a few dollars to ensure your sister has a proper standing in this city, that is my discretion as your mother!"
"It’s not a few dollars, Mom," I said, opening the ledger to the final page. "The account balance is currently forty-two dollars and sixty cents. You’ve emptied the entire reserve. While my wife was gathering leaves from the yard to make soup for my son."
"Amara is a liar!" Beatrice shouted, her voice rising into a shrill, hysterical pitch that echoed up the grand staircase. "She’s trying to poison your mind against us because she’s jealous! She’s a village girl who doesn't understand that a family of our status needs to maintain appearances! If we look poor, the banks won't give us the commercial loans for your father’s old land!"
Cynthia came down the stairs then, wearing a plush robe, her face pale and bloated from the alcohol. "What’s all the screaming about? Mom, my head is splitting."
"Your brother is accusing us of stealing, Cynthia!" Beatrice wept, her performance shifting seamlessly back into grief. "After everything we did to manage this estate while he was away! After the hours I spent praying for his safety!"
Cynthia looked at the ledger on the counter, then at my face. The arrogance from the night before—the voice that had bragged about her brother breaking his back in the desert—vanished from her eyes, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic.
"Daniel, look," Cynthia stammered, reaching out a manicured hand toward my sleeve. "It’s a commercial strategy. The car, the clothes... it’s all investment. I’m on the verge of marrying into the Rossi family—Marcus Rossi, the logistics executive. If he thinks we’re just common laborers, the alliance is off. We did it for the family's future, Daniel! Once the marriage is final, we’ll pay you back double!"
I stood up from the barstool, my tall frame casting a long, dark shadow over both of them. I didn't yell. I didn't smash the porcelain cups. I simply picked up the ledger and slid it back into my pocket.
"The Rossi family," I repeated, a small, cold smile touching my lips. "Marcus Rossi. The man who owns the transport depot near the port?"
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"Yes!" Cynthia said, a frantic spark of hope breaking through her panic. "He’s a man of consequence, Daniel! He values status above all else!"
"Good," I said, walking toward the front door. "Let's see how much he values the status of a thief."
