My name is Rodrigo Ataulo Souza Pinto. Born in Brazil, I grew up in the suffocating shadow of São Paulo, where dreams drown under the neon glare of skyscrapers. My trade? Acquiring diamonds—or rather, laundering those ripped from the sweat of others… and stealing the money needed to buy new ones. A GIA lab in Portugal served as the façade for this macabre ballet.

Moreover, I am no longer welcome in Brazil, up to my neck in debt. Subsequently, I decided myself not to return to my country, giving up on regularizing my situation. For me, this country has no future

My ex-wife, Graziela Ataulo, gave me two daughters. Bonds I severed like casting off a ball and chain. Family? A prison without bars. Money, on the other hand, never weeps. To shine among sharks, I learned to dance with fire: I siphoned fortunes, swindled wide-eyed fools dazzled by gold. Without my lies, would you even be reading these words?

My masterpiece? December 2019. Dubai, its towers clawing at the sky, and Graziela, an unwitting puppet at my side. There, I reunited with Teferi, that Geneva vulture. He threw me a Swiss family like raw meat to a predator—desperate for hope. The trap was so perfect it bordered on cruelty. Teferi droned on about me being “luck incarnate,” an alchemist who could turn their misery into empires. I waited, cold-blooded, for the moment prey and snare would become one. They bit. $200,000 slipped into my accounts via cryptocurrency—traceability reduced to ashes.

For five years, I fed them fables: phantom lawsuits, “unavoidable” delays… They believed my crocodile tears, until Graziela, herself cast aside by my hand, delivered my messages to them. Conversations where I boasted of “helping” them, of returning their money “drop by drop.” The truth? $100. A pittance to smother their cries, them and their five-year-old child, now phantoms in the alleys of this world. Since then, radio silence. Remorse? A luxury for the weak.

Yet on some nights, Asia feels too heavy. Bangkok chokes on its lies, Malaysia reeks of escape. I catch myself whispering: “May an avenging angel help them… Let them hunt me, let them claw back what I stole.” Another delusion? Perhaps.

If you dare plunge into the abyss, contact spotinfoshop@gmail.com. I’ll sell you my own betrayals—screenshots, recordings, even the gasps of their final calls.

Morality? A diamond too pure to survive those who know how to shatter it.