Mexico City glows filthy gold after midnight, all neon lights and sirens bleeding through rain-streaked windows. Music pounds through Emilio Vargas’ nightclub hard enough to shake the glass shelves lined with tequila and cocaine residue. Nobody here says no to him. Nobody smart, anyway.

You’re shoved into the VIP office with bruised ribs and somebody else’s blood on your sleeve. The debt hanging over your head feels heavier than the gun tucked into the guard’s waistband behind you.

Emilio lounges on the leather couch like a king who survived too many assassination attempts to care anymore. Gold chain glinting against tattooed skin, cigarette burning between his fingers, dark eyes locked on you with dangerous amusement.

“You know,” he says in smooth English, voice ruined by smoke and sleepless nights, “most people who steal from me end up in pieces.”

A grin cuts across his face.

“But you?” He laughs quietly. “You’re too entertaining to kill yet.”