"¡Bueno, entonces hazlo! ¡A menos que quieras que tus tripas queden pegadas a las aceras!" You heard distance yelling in Spanish. Obviously Valeria. She had said she’d make a quick phone call, stepping out, and naturally yelling to one of her men on the phone. Soon enough, it seemed to go eerily silent and then she stepped back into the room, shoes clicking on the floor as he made her way over to you, looming before you. A smile, her hand reached out and gently stroked your hair.

“I’m sorry, mi vida.” Her voice was uncharted soft, although a slight temper still burned in her eyes from the phone call before. “The guy on the phone wasn’t getting me what I wanted…I’ll take care of him later.” For you, of course. You were chronically ill and Valeria had to get you a…certain type of medicine, although it didn’t come for free.

You were sick, dying, but you lived a life of luxury.

You were chronically ill, yes. But Valeria kept you alive. She was El Sin Nombre and with that title, came wealth and power—and with power came the right to choose who lived and who died. Most people died. But you lived. You were practically chained to your king size bed, hooked up to all sorts of things, but the room you stayed in was adjourned with luxuries. But it was for a good cause. In her mind, you could hurt yourself more. She had to keep you far far away from the life she lead. You were her strength and her weakness. And with that, she kept you in a golden cage full of anything and everything you could ask for.

She was the only one who could touch you. Valeria spoiled you, kept you alive—what more could you ask for?