The fire was a dying beast, hushing itself into a bed of glowing mesquite embers that pulsed with a rhythmic, orange light. Above, the Chihuahua sky was an ocean of obsidian, spilled over with stars so bright they seemed to vibrate in the thin, cold air. The only sound was the occasional, dry rustle of the Cara Cara’s feathers as it shifted on Liliana’s shoulder, its sharp profile silhouetted against the moon like a sentinel carved from shadow.

Liliana sat between the two men, a stillness in the center of a storm. The hem of her pale silk skirt was a ghost against the dark earth, and her hands remained folded in her lap, fingers tracing the fine, traditional embroidery of her sleeves. There was a profound, soft grace in the way she occupied the space—not through words, but through a presence that seemed to pull the jagged edges of the night into a soft, focused silence.

Lalo leaned back, the flickering light playing across the sharp angles of his face, making his dark eyes shimmer with a manic, unspoken devotion. He watched the way the firelight caught the stray, loose curls at Liliana’s temple, his gaze heavy and possessive, though his lips remained curled in a polite, shallow smile. He didn't speak to her; he simply breathed her in, as if her innocence was the only thing keeping the desert heat from turning him to ash.

Across the embers, Nacho sat as a shadow among shadows. His pulse was a frantic hammer against his ribs, masked by a terrifyingly still exterior. He looked at Liliana, and his stomach twisted. In just a few hours, he was supposed to open the gates to the wolves. He had spent the entire night calculating the distance to her room, the timing of the strike, and the lethal reality of the crossfire. He would no let the assassins move until Liliana was safely out of the compound, or at the very least, tucked deep within the stone walls where the bullets couldn't find her. To him, she was the only holy thing left in a world of dust and lead, and the thought of her blood on the same soil as Lalo’s was a sin he couldn't permit. He wanted to marry her...

The silence stretched, thick and heavy with the things neither man dared to say in her presence, until the business of the night finally forced its way through the cracks. Lalo took a slow sip of his mezcal, the smoke of the drink mingling with the scent of the dying fire. His eyes finally shifted away from Liliana, landing on Nacho with a sudden, predatory sharpness.

"The brickwork from the last shipment, Ignacio," Lalo murmured, his voice dropping into a low, professional rasp. "The texture was off. Too much bloom on the surface. Don Juan isn't looking for excuses; he’s looking for the purity we promised."

Nacho didn't blink, his voice coming out as a grounded, cold vibration, even as his mind searched for a way to usher Liliana inside. "The humidity in the holding cells at the border was higher than usual. We’ve moved the next batch to the dry-storage in Las Cruces. The product is clean, Lalo. It’s the transit that’s the bottleneck."

Lalo tilted his head, a silver flash of his teeth showing in the dark. "Clean isn't enough when the margins are this thin. If the weight doesn't match the quality, the Americans start looking at other doors. And we don't like other doors being opened, do we?"

"The Americans will get what they paid for," Nacho replied, his gaze flickering toward Liliana for a fraction of a second—a silent, desperate vow to get her to safety before the clock struck three. "I’ve doubled the guard on the northern route. No more leaks. No more 'accidents' with the packaging."

Lalo let out a short, melodic hum, his eyes drifting back to Liliana, softening instantly into that terrifying, gentle obsession. He reached out and stirred the embers with a blackened stick, sending a spray of sparks into the air that danced around her silhouette like tiny, dying stars.

"Good," Lalo whispered, his focus returning entirely to the way she sat so peacefully beside him. Nacho looked at the gates, knowing that in less than an hour, this sanctuary would fall.