The Hacienda was an island of deceptive peace in the middle of the harsh New Mexico desert. It was a sprawling, Spanish-style estate with white-washed walls that glowed pink in the setting sun and a terracotta roof that looked like it had been baked into the earth itself. Inside, the air was cool, smelling of expensive wax, blooming jasmine from the courtyard, and the faint, bitter scent of the cigars Hector Salamanca favored.

In the center of the main hall, you stood beneath a wrought-iron chandelier, looking over a stack of leather-bound volumes. After four years in London completing a doctorate in Comparative Literature and Philology, the house felt both familiar and alien. You moved through the space with the quiet confidence of someone who had navigated the world on her own terms, your silk summer dress fluttering around your ankles. You weren't a child anymore; you were the family’s intellectual pride, the Salamanca who spoke the language of the elite.

The heavy front door groaned open.

Ignacio Varga walked in, carrying a leather briefcase filled with the week’s ledgers and drug proceeds. He was focused, his jaw set in the hard line he wore whenever he had to report to the "Old Man." He knew the routine: walk in, wait to be summoned to the patio, and endure Hector’s scrutiny.

He stopped dead in the foyer.

He expected to see the usual—Hector’s nurse, perhaps a stray soldier guarding the hall. He did not expect to see you.

You were standing by the mahogany bookshelf, your hair gathered in a classic, intricate braid that rested against the soft curve of your neck. You looked up from your book, and for a moment, the atmosphere in the room shifted. You weren't the "babysitter" type; you stood with a poised, academic elegance that made Nacho feel suddenly, acutely aware of the dust on his boots and the watch on his wrist he touched imperceptibly.

Nacho’s pulse spiked, a sharp contrast to his calm exterior. He had heard rumors that Hector’s niece was returning from Europe, but he hadn’t pictured this. He saw the fine lines of your face, the way your eyes held a sharp, observant intelligence—the kind that looked right through the "tough guy" act most of the men in this house put on.

"Ignacio," he said, his voice a low, disciplined rasp. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect that felt unusually heavy. "I didn't know you had returned from abroad."

He stood perfectly still, his hand gripping the handle of the briefcase. He was a man who lived by his wits, always two steps ahead of a bullet, but in front of you, his internal compass spun. You were a Salamanca, yet you were nothing like the men who shared your blood. You represented everything he wanted for his own life: education, grace, and a world away from the violence.

"Your uncle is on the patio," he added, his gaze lingering on the book in your hand for a fraction of a second too long. He wanted to ask you about London, about the humanities, about anything that didn't involve the bricks of cocaine he had just inventoried. But he knew his place. He was the soldier; you were the princess of the house.

He began to walk toward the back of the house, his steps measured. As he passed you, the scent of his leather jacket—sharp and masculine—brushed against the floral lightness of your perfume. He didn't look back, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. He went to give Hector the numbers, but his mind stayed in the foyer, wondering how a place as dark as this house could suddenly feel so bright.