Chapter Forty-Five: The First Target
Lucia learned patience in silence.
Back in her father's world, she moved like a shadow—soft-spoken, obedient, eyes always lowered. The staff saw a broken girl still mourning her mother. David saw a daughter too afraid to be dangerous. That was the mistake they all made.
Every night, after the house settled into its artificial calm, Lucia worked.
She started with names.
Her mother's video had given her the truth, but Lucia needed confirmation—patterns, habits, weaknesses. She accessed David's old phone records first, using passwords she remembered from childhood. He had never imagined his daughter would remember such things. He had never imagined she would need to.
One number appeared again and again, spanning years. Late nights. Early mornings. Gaps that aligned perfectly with Margret's illness, with hospital stays, with moments when David had been "busy with work."
Lucia stared at the number until it felt burned into her mind.
The mistress.
She didn't rush. Rushing was how people made mistakes. Instead, she watched.
The woman's name was Amara. Elegant. Public-facing. A philanthropist in the daylight, smiling beside David at fundraisers where Margret had once stood. Lucia found the photos online—archived articles, cropped images, carefully edited histories. Amara had been there all along, hidden in plain sight.
Lucia followed her digitally first. Social media patterns. Charity boards. Private clubs. Restaurants she frequented. The kind of woman who believed she was untouchable because powerful men had protected her for years.
Lucia understood that kind of arrogance well.
Then came the physical tracking.
She dressed plainly, hair tied back, face forgettable. She took public transport, never the same route twice. She learned where Amara lived—a glass apartment overlooking the city, guarded but not fortified. She learned her schedule. Pilates on Mondays. Lunch meetings on Wednesdays. Private doctor visits on Fridays.
That one made Lucia pause.
A private doctor. Cash payments. No records.
Interesting.
Lucia didn't feel anger the way she expected. Not yet. What she felt was clarity. This woman wasn't just a mistress. She was a participant. A beneficiary. Someone who had watched Margret wither and said nothing.
Someone who had known.
Lucia remembered her mother coughing quietly in the kitchen at night, trying not to wake her. Remembered the way David never flinched. Remembered the day he accused Margret in the hospital, loud and cruel, turning innocence into guilt.
Amara had slept peacefully through all of that.
Lucia followed her one evening to a quiet restaurant. She sat two tables away, listening without looking. Amara laughed easily, the sound light and careless.
"I told him to be patient," Amara said, swirling her drink. "Everything falls into place eventually."
Lucia's fingers tightened around her glass.
So she had known. Not suspected. Known.
Lucia left before the meal ended. She walked until her legs ached, until the night air burned her lungs. Back in her room, she locked the door and sat on the floor, breathing slowly, grounding herself.
This was not the endgame, she reminded herself.
This was the beginning.
She began constructing a profile—financial trails, shell companies, sudden gifts, properties quietly transferred. Amara's wealth had grown alongside David's rise. Lucia documented everything, cross-referencing dates with moments her mother had been hospitalized, moments when money had mysteriously vanished from shared accounts.
The picture was undeniable.
Amara wasn't just the first target because she was the mistress.
She was the first target because she was the weakest link.
Lucia didn't plan violence. Not yet. What she planned was exposure. Pressure. Fear. The same slow suffocation her mother had endured.
She arranged a chance meeting.
It happened in a bookstore café—public, neutral, safe. Lucia approached Amara calmly, holding a book she had no intention of buying.
"Excuse me," Lucia said softly. "You're Amara, right?"
Amara looked up, surprised, then smiled. "Yes?"
Lucia met her eyes for the first time. "You knew my mother."
The smile faltered.
"I'm sorry," Amara said carefully. "I don't think—"
"You do," Lucia interrupted, still calm. "Margret. David's wife."
The air between them shifted.
Amara studied her now, recognition dawning. "Lucia," she said slowly. "I heard what happened to your mother. Tragic."
Lucia nodded. "Tragic is one word."
They stood in silence. People moved around them, unaware that something sharp and dangerous had entered the room.
"I don't want trouble," Amara said at last. "Your father and I—"
Lucia leaned in slightly. "You already have trouble. You just don't feel it yet."
She placed a folded piece of paper on the table—just one name written on it. A shell company Amara had used.
Amara's face drained of color.
Lucia straightened. "This is your only warning."
"Warning for what?" Amara whispered.
"For what's coming," Lucia replied. "Decide which side of the truth you want to be on."
She walked away before Amara could respond.
That night, Lucia wrote in her notebook:Target One engaged. Reaction: fear. Confirmation: guilt.
She closed the book and stared at the ceiling.
Her mother had once taught her that survival wasn't about strength—it was about timing.
Lucia smiled faintly in the darkness.
Her timing had finally come.