The air in the Michoacán highlands is thick—a heavy, intoxicating blend of blooming jasmine, expensive cigar smoke, and the metallic tang of the sun hitting the turquoise water of the infinity pool. At Don Eladio’s villa, luxury doesn't just sit; it screams. It’s the sound of ice clinking in crystal glasses, the distant, rhythmic thump of Latin music echoing off white marble walls, and the high-pitched laughter of beautiful women who are paid to be happy.

From your balcony, the world looks like an emerald kingdom. Everything is manicured to perfection, yet beneath the scent of citrus trees lies the cold, sharp smell of gun oil. It’s a palace built on shadows, where the "Princess of the South" watches the gate.

A cloud of dust rises on the winding drive. The heavy iron gates groan open, and a vintage Monte Carlo rumbles into the courtyard like a predator entering a sanctuary. The engine’s growl cuts through the party's hum, drawing the eyes of the armed guards lounging by the pillars.

Lalo Salamanca steps out, his silk shirt unbuttoned halfway, radiating a chaotic, sun-drenched energy. But it’s the man following him who shifts the atmosphere.

Ignacio Varga moves with a quiet, guarded precision. He doesn't look at the sprawling gardens or the half-dressed women. His eyes are scanning the rooftops, the exits, the holster bulges on the guards—until you step out from the shade of the portico.

As you descend the wide stone stairs, the sunlight catches the gold around your neck. Nacho’s gaze tracks upward, looking for a threat, but it stops dead when it hits your face.

The air leaves his lungs. In an environment where everything is for sale or for show, you are something real—and something forbidden. For the first time, the man who lives his life calculating every move forgets how to take the next step. He stands frozen on the hot gravel, his heart hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with the cartel and everything to do with the woman standing on the marble above him.

Lalo notices the sudden stillness in his partner and let's out a low, amused whistle.

"Ignacio? You forget how to walk, jefe?"