Chapter 4 - The Uninvited Guests
The chandeliers in the grand dining room of the Romero estate cast a warm, golden glow over the mahogany table.
Victoria Romero sat at the head of the table, cutting into a rare filet mignon with a delicate, precise motion. Across from her sat Marcus Vance, the regional director of Vanguard Holdings, swirling a glass of expensive Bordeaux.
“Well, Rodrigo,” Victoria said, raising her glass as her son walked through the double doors of the dining room. “To a clean slate. The accounts are cleared, the corporate debt has been wiped by Vanguard, and there is no grieving widow to contest the estate. I must say, your mother’s plan was flawless.”
Rodrigo poured himself a generous glass of whiskey, sinking heavily into his leather armchair. He looked exhausted, but triumphant.
“It’s done,” Rodrigo murmured, rubbing his temples. “The burial was fast enough that no one questioned it. The doctor’s payoff is secure. As far as Chicago knows, we are a grieving widower and a mourning grandmother.”
Marcus chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “A tragedy, truly. A heart condition taking a mother and her twin boys all on the same day. It reads like a sad novel. But business is business, Rodrigo. With Vanguard acquiring your construction land at a fraction of its value, we all win.”
“Except for Mariana,” Victoria added with a cold, humorless chuckle. “She always lacked ambition. She thought love and family were enough to anchor a dynasty. How foolish.”
Before Marcus could raise his glass for a toast, the heavy oak front doors of the mansion echoed with a loud, violent crash.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The sound reverberated through the high-ceilinged foyer like thunder.
Rodrigo froze, his whiskey glass halting halfway to his mouth. Victoria’s fork dropped against her china plate with a sharp clink.
“What on earth...?” Victoria frowned, looking toward the hallway. “Did you leave the security gate unlocked?”
Before Rodrigo could stand up, the dining room doors swung wide open.
The heavy wood banged against the interior walls.
Standing in the doorway was a figure straight out of a nightmare. Mariana’s black dress was shredded and stained black with cemetery dirt. Her long dark hair was matted with soil and dried leaves. Her bare feet were caked in mud, and her eyes—burning with an icy, terrifying fury—were locked directly onto Victoria and Rodrigo.
Flanking her stood Mateo and Santiago, pale and shivering, clutching their mother’s torn skirt.
The room went dead silent. The color drained completely from Rodrigo’s face, his jaw dropping so low he looked like a marionette with cut strings. Victoria let out a choked, unnatural gasp, her hands flying to her throat as she recoiled backward in her chair.
“G-Ghosts...” Victoria whispered, her voice trembling with absolute, primal terror. “That’s... that’s impossible...”
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Mariana stepped slowly into the dining room, her bare footsteps leaving wet, muddy tracks across the pristine white Persian rug.
“Not ghosts, Victoria,” Mariana said, her voice smooth, chillingly calm, and carrying the lethal weight of an executioner. “Family.”
