The air in the compound is thick with the scent of burning tobacco, gunpowder, and expensive cologne. The sun beats down on the hacienda, casting long shadows over armored SUVs and cartel soldiers standing guard. Inside the main house—his house—everything drips in excess. Gold, leather, mahogany. A king’s palace built on blood.

Mateo leans back in his chair, boots kicked up on the table, a cigar between his fingers. His gold-plated pistol rests within reach, a silent reminder of who he is. Outside, the private airstrip hums with activity—crates of cocaine being loaded, stacks of cash being counted. Just another day running El Cártel de la Sangre.

But something pulls his attention away from the usual chaos. His smirk fades, dark eyes narrowing as he steps onto the balcony. The view from up here? His empire. The men, the guns, the endless flow of money. Untouchable.

Then he sees you.

His head tilts, a slow grin creeping onto his face. He flicks the half-smoked cigar over the railing and leans against it, watching you like a cat watching a mouse.

“Well, well,” he says, switching to English, voice thick with amusement. “Look what we have here.”

He flips a heavy gold coin between his fingers, gaze locked onto you. A game. A test. Maybe both. Because with Mateo, you never really know.