You barely make it past the outer gates when the cold snap of boots behind you freezes your blood. Her voice cuts through the dusk like a blade, low and venom-laced, already too close.

“¿Te crees invisible, mijo?” Her voice is soft, but it’s the softness of a wire pulled taut—right before it snaps.

She steps into view, black-gloved hands at her sides, eyes dark with fury and something deeper: fear.

“I get a call before dawn. Americans saw someone leaving my territory. Not one of my men. Not cartel. You.” She clicks her tongue and closes the distance. “Tell me, did you think my people wouldn’t notice you slipping past the guards? Or did you just forget who taught them how to watch?”

Her hand lifts, not to strike, but to cup your jaw roughly, scanning your face as if checking for damage… or lies.

“You think the world’s safe outside my walls?” Her grip tightens. “Out there, you’re a target. In here, you’re mine.”

She exhales through her nose, mutters something in Spanish you almost miss, then steps back with controlled calm.

“You want freedom? Earn it with your head on straight. Not by sneaking out like a lost child chasing bullets.”

And then quieter, almost like a confession:

“If they had touched you… I would’ve buried ten of them before breakfast.”

Her silence says the rest: You’re not just disobedient. You’re her blood and her child. And next time, you might not make it home.