The first was to Lieutenant Harris, my commanding officer and the only person who knew why my last deployment had not been ordinary patrol duty. The second was to Grace Lin, a federal prosecutor I had helped during a joint military financial crimes investigation. The third was to Dr. Patel, a forensic physician who photographed Elena’s injuries before they could fade.
By breakfast, I was calm enough to sit across from my mother.
She poured coffee into my cup like she owned the house. “Elena looks fragile. Maybe you should consider having her evaluated.”
Ricardo smirked. “Or divorced. I know lawyers.”
Elena sat beside me, silent, one hand hidden in mine under the table.
I smiled. “That’s generous.”
Ricardo leaned back. “While you were playing hero overseas, we kept things running here. The company needed leadership. Mom needed security. Elena needed guidance.”
“Guidance?” I asked.
Mother’s eyes sharpened. “Don’t be dramatic. She signed willingly.”
“Did she?”
Ricardo tapped the table. “Careful, brother. You’ve been gone too long. The documents are legal.”
That was their first mistake. They thought paper was power.
Their second mistake was announcing a family dinner that Friday to “celebrate the restructuring.” They invited investors, lawyers, cousins, and my father’s old business partners. Mother wanted applause. Ricardo wanted witnesses to his victory.
I helped them arrange it.
