Chapter 3 - The Federal Trap
By Thursday evening, the quiet suburban home in Denver had transformed into an invisible war room.
Lucy had quietly contacted Dr. Gabriel Mena using an encrypted messaging app. The doctor had driven out to meet her in a secluded diner parking lot three miles from the house, handing over a secure thumb drive containing six weeks of recorded audio confessions, forged medical charts, and financial wire receipts linking Beatriz and Alvin directly to the conspiracy.
Better yet, Gabriel revealed that the federal authorities—specifically postal inspectors and financial crimes investigators—had already built an airtight case against Beatriz for wire fraud and interstate conspiracy regarding the Aspen property sales.
"We just need to catch them red-handed with the lethal injection tomorrow morning," Gabriel explained across the sticky diner table, stirring his coffee. "Once I administer a harmless saline substitute instead of the potassium chloride, and the feds walk in with the warrant, it’s over."
"No," Lucy said coldly, a fierce, calculating glint in her eyes. "Just arresting them quietly isn't enough. They tried to kill my father, steal our legacy, and destroy our family. I want the world to watch them fall."
Friday morning dawned bright and bitterly cold.
At 9:00 AM sharp, Beatriz’s hired legal counsel, accompanied by a notary public and Alvin—looking smug and impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit—arrived at the Rossy estate.
Beatriz greeted them in the grand foyer, her face a mask of sorrowful, dutiful wifely devotion. "It’s so tragic," she sighed dramatically to the notary. "My poor husband’s mind is completely gone, but we must manage the estate before medical bills bankrupt us entirely."
Alvin grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Where do we sign, Bea? Let’s get this over with so we can celebrate."
Upstairs in the master bedroom, Dr. Gabriel Mena stood over Matthew’s bed, holding a sterile medical syringe filled with clear fluid. The private nurse had been given the morning off by Beatriz under the guise of "family privacy during legal matters."
Gabriel looked down at Matthew, whose eyes remained fixed straight ahead, though his pulse was roaring in his ears.
"It’s time, Matthew," Gabriel whispered.
The bedroom door pushed open, and Beatriz swept into the room, followed closely by Alvin and the notary public carrying a heavy leather briefcase filled with closing documents.
"Is he ready?" Beatriz asked, her eyes glittering with impatient greed.
"His vitals are stable," Gabriel replied smoothly, stepping back from the bed. "I’m about to administer his morning cardiac support medication."
Alvin walked over to the side of the bed, looking down at his paralyzed older brother with a chilling, arrogant smirk. "Well, Matthew. Looks like your empire finally belongs to us. Thanks for always picking up the tab."
Beatriz stepped forward, holding a pen out toward the notary. "Let’s sign the Aspen transfer first, and then administer the final dose, Gabriel. I want it all wrapped up before noon."
"I agree," Gabriel said loudly, his voice echoing clearly through the room.
Suddenly, the front door downstairs rattled open with a resounding bang, followed by heavy, synchronized boots stomping across the hardwood foyer.
Beatriz froze, the pen slipping from her fingers. "What is that noise?"
Before anyone could move toward the door, the master bedroom was stormed by four heavily armed federal agents wearing tactical vests emblazoned with FBI - FINANCIAL CRIMES DIVISION, followed immediately by state police and two local detectives.
At the front of the pack strode Lucy, her phone held high in the air, livestreaming the entire scene to a secure news feed and broadcasting live across national social media platforms.
"Don't move!" shouted the lead federal agent, drawing his sidearm and pointing it squarely at Alvin.
Alvin threw his hands up in panic, stumbling backward into the medical cart. "This is a mistake! We’re just signing real estate papers!"
"Real estate papers for a murder-for-hire plot?" a cold, authoritative voice boomed from the doorway.
Matthew blinked.
With a deliberate, agonizingly slow motion, Matthew turned his head away from the window, broke his rigid neck posture for the first time in five months, locked his eyes directly onto his wife and brother, and spoke.
May you like
His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse, but loud and crystal clear in the stunned silence of the room:
"You're entirely too late, Beatriz. I'm not dying today."
