Page 26 of Born of Vengeance

Rafael’s hand tightened on the pistol.

“No,” he said. “I’m the one who made it mean something.”

And then he pulled the trigger.

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The shot echoed like a gavel.

Valderrama collapsed backwards into his chair, a perfect red blossom blooming on his chest.

No scream. No final plea. Just a gasp. Then stillness.

Rafael stood over the body.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look away. Only lowered the gun slowly, like placing a heavy burden on the ground.

Then he turned.

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The room was lavish. Polished oak shelves, antique globes, a glass display case with ceremonial daggers. It was a room built for a man who wanted to be remembered as powerful.

Rafael didn’t care about the surface.

He searched with precision—opening drawers, flipping books, checking behind paintings. His fingers were fast but methodical. He wasn’t looking for keepsakes.

He was looking for evidence.

It was behind the third painting—an oil portrait of Valderrama himself, mounted above the fireplace.

Rafael pulled it down.

Behind it: a panel of metal, biometric-locked. Too modern for the room. Too private.

He dragged the senator’s limp body forward, pressed the dead man’s thumb against the scanner.

The lock disengaged with a hiss.

Inside:

? A leather-bound ledger, its pages stiff with ink and secrets. Names. Transfers. Schedules.

? Three encrypted USB drives, each marked with a sticker—tiny flag icons: Brazil. Brazil. Poland.

? A slim black notebook embossed with silver lettering:

Comité de Sombra.

Rafael opened it.

Three initials on the first page:

S.P. – Paulo Silveira

R.V. – Renata Vasques

K.J. – Krzysztof Jakub

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