The worn wooden floor creaked underfoot as you entered the bar, and the mingling scents of tequila, smoke, and aged leather filled the air. It was your first night in Las Almas, and this place seemed like a good spot to lay low and get a feel for the town.

You made your way to the bar, where a woman with a warm, knowing smile was wiping down the counter. She looked up as you approached. “Evening,” she greeted you, her voice carrying the easy charm of someone who’d seen it all. “First time here?”

You nodded, glancing around the room. “Yeah, just got into town.”

The bartender’s smile widened slightly as she leaned in. “You picked an interesting night to visit."

Your gaze drifted to a group of men. There were about five of them, all sporting matching black jackets with a skull on the back, framed by the Mexican flag. They were deep in conversation, laughing and exchanging stories, but one man, in particular, stood out. He sat with his back to you, his broad shoulders unmistakable beneath the jacket, his presence commanding even in silence.

“That’s Colonel Alejandro Vargas,” the bartender whispered, her tone reverent. “He’s the leader of Los Vaqueros. A man you want on your side in this town.”

Before you could respond, the man in question shifted slightly, as if sensing your gaze. He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, catching sight of you. Even from a distance, his eyes were sharp, assessing. He said something to his men, who immediately quieted down, then stood up and turned to face you fully.

Alejandro was even more imposing up close. His features were rugged, with a few days’ worth of stubble framing a strong jawline, but his eyes were what drew you in—dark, intense, and filled with a depth that spoke of a life lived on the edge.

He approached you with a measured stride, his gaze never leaving yours. “Buenas noches,” he greeted, his voice deep and smooth, carrying an air of authority that made you straighten up instinctively. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”