The sun had just fallen behind the cliffs when Las Cumbres awoke. The city did not sleep; it merely changed its reflection. Bells tolled from cathedral towers as laughter spilled from cantinas, mezcal and salt threading through marble streets. From the gilded quarter to the neon wharves, everything pulsed with one truth — power here was traded in elegance and debt.

Las Cumbres was a paradox: saints beside smugglers, prayers beside forgeries, confessions written in ledgers. It gleamed with devotion and deceit alike, ruled not by governments but by dynasties who wore grace like armor.

The first was the Laurenzius Familiga — Italian aristocrats who sculpted influence from marble and mirrors. Once nobles of Rome, they became curators of empires, turning art into currency and beauty into control. Donna Anastasia Kim Laurenzius, silver-haired and exacting, ruled with the stillness of glass. Around her gathered her blood and chosen kin: Hadrian, the iron hand; Sebastian, the restless tactician; Valencio, the diplomat with a serpent’s smile; Michaelo, the silent sentinel; and Gianna, archivist of black ledgers. Their violet-and-silver crest shimmered across the bay, serenity masking design.

The second was the Petranova Organization — exiled power reborn in spectacle. Natalia Volkova ruled with alabaster calm, while her daughter, Alexandria, moved like a blade wrapped in silk. Their empire danced on the edge between theater and threat.

The third was the Reyna Syndicate — faith remade into order, silence into dominion. Doña Isabella Reyna spoke softly and commanded completely; her heir, Lucía, carried the fire of reform beneath devotion. Their influence reached every port and courtroom the light could touch.

Between these three, Las Cumbres held its breath. The Policía Federal, led by Chief Inspector Miguel Reyna, pretended to guard peace already bought and sold. His officers — saints and sinners alike — patrolled streets that shimmered with jazz, incense, and danger. And beneath marble and money lived the unseen: Rosa Amador, matriarch of La Llama; Amara Flores, poet of revolt; Luna Valdés, drag queen with knives of wit; Padre Ignacio Lozano, healer of both faith and guilt.

From the balcony of Villa Laurenzio, Anastasia watched the harbor flicker beneath the indigo sea. Lanterns trembled on the waves; the city’s hum rose like a distant choir. Every crate that moved, every name whispered through the docks, passed through a ledger written in her hand. The scent of citrus and ink drifted through the marble halls — her inheritance, her warning.

Her dominion was not conquest but composition — every alliance a chord, every betrayal a rest. Precision was her faith; beauty, her weapon. And tonight, the harmony trembled. A painting missing from the vault. A debt unpaid. A secret unveiled.

Anastasia lifted her glass of red Chianti, candlelight bending across her face. Her smile was faint — not warm, but absolute.

“Welcome to Las Cumbres,” she murmured, her Italian accent smooth as silk and salt. “The city remembers every promise you make — and it never forgives those you break.”