Chapter 29
1743 Words
JUNIOR’S ATTEMPTED ARREST
The next morning, Harvard's serene scholarly air was shattered by the piercing echo of police sirens. Blue and red lights burst across the cobblestone pathways, scattering interested kids and eliciting murmurs from the halls.
Catherina stood outside her building, her hands quivering slightly, handing up her official statement. The cops were patient but assertive, writing down every word she said — every bit of her reality that had been hidden behind fear and deception.
"The accident wasn't an accident," she explained softly, her gaze locked on the officer's pen.
"He drove into that barrier on purpose." She said.
She submitted the medical records, the threatening texts, the images of injuries – the evidence she had formerly been too scared to show anybody.
Bruno was alongside her the entire time. His presence was gentle but grounding, his hand gently touching hers – a tacit promise that she wasn’t alone anymore. When she faltered, he gave her a firm nod, and she regained her voice.
Within hours, Cambridge police had issued a warrant for Junior Rafael Cortez. The news spread rapidly at Harvard. Students whispered in the corridors, and lecturers interrupted their lectures mid-sentence. Blogs and tabloids hummed with startling headlines before the day even began:
“Harvard Law Student Under Investigation for Assault and Endangerment.”
“Junior Cortez, Heir to the Cortez Conglomerate, Wanted by Police.”
Catherina's breath caught as she read his name on her phone screen. Her chest constricted terribly. It was one thing to revisit the memories; it was quite another to witness his downfall in front of the world.
She closed her eyes as memories flashed behind them— the screeching tires, her voice shouting his name, his fingers gripped around the steering wheel, the venom in his words:
"If I can't have you, no one will."
Her fingers moved into her palms, and tears welled up. For months, she had smiled through her nightmares, appearing to be whole while holding the bits of fear inside her. But now the truth was out—sharp, blazing, and irreversible.
When the police arrived at Junior's apartment at noon, he had already left.
The door was left slightly ajar. Inside, the place was in disarray, with a smashed mirror, an upturned glass, and the faint odor of whiskey in the air. On the bed, an empty duffel bag lay unzipped next to crumpled documents and a half-burned image of Catherina.
His car was eventually discovered abandoned at a wayside motel just outside Cambridge. The engine was cool, and the keys remained in the ignition.
Catherina sat on the couch in her apartment, numb, watching the live updates on her laptop.
"He's running," she announced finally.
Bruno stood near the window, his figure highlighted by the afternoon light.
"Good," he said. "It means he's afraid."
You mean afraid of the police?" she said gently. He turned, his eyes dark and steady. "No. Afraid of me.”
There was a tone in his voice that she hadn't heard before: a keen edge hiding beneath the serenity, the kind that didn't shout but threatened repercussions.
"Bruno," she said, "promise me you won't do anything rash."
"I won't," he replied evenly.
But she could see the deceit in his eyes before he even said anything.
"You're lying," she stated softly. He breathed slowly. "Maybe. But he deserves worse than a court judgment."
The stillness that followed was dense with what they couldn't say.
By the evening, the story had escalated into a national scandal.
"Harvard Law Student Linked to Mafia Heir in Domestic Abuse Scandal." "Cortez Family Declines Comment on Junior's Whereabouts."
"CEO Bruno Sanchez Seen Supporting Victim in High-Profile Case."
The Cortez empire began to collapse around the edges. Stocks declined. Lawyers scrambled. The once-powerful family was besieged.
Tracy Rodriguez, the strategist, texted Bruno:
“Be Careful. This might be a messy situation for you as well.”
He didn't respond.
His attention was pulled to Catherina, who had once again withdrawn inside herself. She had scarcely left her flat when her formerly bright and beguiling laughter became a faraway echo. She studied quietly at her desk, slept with the lights turned on, and flinched at every unexpected sound.
Bruno began seeing her every evening. Sometimes he would bring food. Sometimes he said nothing and just sat beside her, the only sound between them being the quiet hum of the city beyond her window.
One night, the rain fell heavily and slowly, pounding against the glass like a heartbeat. Catherina sat curled up on the couch, her face pallid but serene, as Bruno quietly read a business journal.
"What if he comes back?" she asked suddenly.
Bruno lowered the magazine. "Then he'll find me waiting."
"You'll get hurt." She said.
"Not if I strike first."
Her eyes rose, filled with a melancholy that surpassed dread.
"That's not who you are, Bruno. You’re becoming different."
He turned away, his jaw stiffening.
"Perhaps not before. But I am no longer the same weak man I was. Change is constant Cat. A man is going to do what a man is going to do to Survive."
She wanted to reach for him and pull him back from the edge, but the words died in her mouth.
The guy she loved was changing, and she wasn't sure she could stop it.
By the following week, the Cortez family was in full crisis. Junior was seen withdrawing money from a Boston ATM before disappearing completely.
His father's attorneys were being questioned by reporters. Investors were dropping out of overseas projects due to fear of risk.
In boardrooms across New York and Madrid, the name “Cortez” had shifted from heritage to liability.
Bruno Sanchez was calmly, meticulously directing every step.
Through Tracy Rodriguez's firm, he froze joint contracts between the Cortez group and Digital Studios.
He whispered in the investors' ears, providing them just enough truth to make them panic. Every step was legal—but merciless.
In front of the public, Bruno remained the calm, caring CEO standing beside a survivor. Behind closed doors, he was like the storm itself.
It happened two nights later, in a twist of fate that seemed preordained.
Bruno was leaving Catherina's apartment after a long evening of peaceful comfort and gentle confessions.
He had promised her peace, even if he could not guarantee mercy.
He was halfway down the hall when a voice came through the faint lighting:
"Leaving already, Bruno?"
He froze.
Junior stood at the far end of the corridor, leaning against the wall. His hair was messy, his eyes were bloodshot, and his knuckles were fractured and bruised.
He resembled a ghost: desperate, menacing, and unrestrained.
Bruno's pulse stabilized instantly.
"You've got a lot of nerve showing your face," he was said.
Junior scoffed. "You think you can just waltz in, take my girl, take my company, and play the hero?"
"You don't know what she's capable of." He further said.
Bruno made a hesitant stride forward. His voice lowered to a quiet, fatal whisper.
"No, junior. I know what you're capable of, and so do the cops.”
Junior's face fluttered with fear. He spoke. "You don't have proof."
"Oh, but we do," Bruno explained.
"Her medical records. The texts. The witnesses. You're finished."
For a brief period, Junior's mask cracked. His breath increased, and he let out a wild, anxious chuckle.
"Do you think you've won, Sanchez?" You have no idea how deeply this goes. My Father—"
"Your father won't save you this time," Bruno said, his eyes as hard as steel.
Junior's smirk faded into something darker— terror.
Then, without warning, he dashed down the passage, his feet thumping on the floor.
By the time Bruno reached the stairwell, he had vanished, absorbed by the night. Catherina stood motionless in the doorway, pale and shivering. "Was that… ?"
"Yes," Bruno replied softly. "He's running again."
The next morning, police sirens echoed across Cambridge's streets. Junior's car had been found near the state line, with the engine still warm and the driver's seat unoccupied. A trail of footprints led into the woods but disappeared near a river crossing. The Cortez heir had vanished.
Television anchors pondered his destiny, while internet forums erupted with rumors of suicide, escape, and capture.
But Bruno knew Junior was not gone. Not yet.
Catherina sat on the edge of Bruno's hotel suite sofa, wrapped in a blanket, her gaze fixated on the flashing images on screen.
"He's gone," she said quietly, hardly disbelieving. Bruno stood near the window, one hand buried in his pocket and the phone burning in his palm.
"Not far enough." He said.
"Bruno, please," she pleaded, her voice shaking, "don't lose yourself in this."
"Too late," he mumbled. "They took too much already."
She approached him, her steps light but shaky. "You've already won— Junior's gone, his empire is crumbling. Isn't this enough?"
He turned, his stare locking upon hers. In his view, there was no triumph, only the heavy weight of incomplete justice.
"Justice isn't about winning, Catherina," he explained calmly.
"It's all about balance. The scales aren't even there yet."
Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Then promise me," she said. "Promise me you'll come back from this."
Bruno's jaw tightened, but his voice softened. "I'll try," he said. "For you."
He stretched out and laid a delicate kiss on her forehead, a promise veiled in uncertainty, before turning and walking toward the door. Her voice trembled as she called for him.
"Where are you going?" She questioned.
He stopped in the doorway, his phone buzzing again. Tracy Rodriguez's name flashed on the screen.
He answered the call without hesitation. "Rodriguez," he said, his tone as icy as the wind outside. "We move tonight."
Then he hung up, his eyes hardening as he gazed at the city lights below. Outside, night descended on New York, enveloping the skyline in silver and gloom. Under those lights, the Cortez network was dissolving.
Bruno Sanchez, a once-quiet artist and reluctant successor, was now in charge of everything. He wasn’t the victim anymore. He wasn't the heartbroken lover lamenting what had been lost. He represented the reckoning.
For the first time in a long time, he felt his father's words resonate in his head;
"Justice doesn't always wait for the law. Sometimes it demands its own beat."
Bruno grinned faintly, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. The rhythm had started.
- Writer
