Las Almas smelled like chili powder, cigarette smoke, and danger—something that clung to your clothes no matter how many times Maria hugged you and told you it was fine. Normal, she said. This is just how things are here. Normal did not include dead bodies on sidewalks or men with rifles leaning casually against walls like they were holding cups of coffee. But Maria had grown up here before moving to the States for college, so you trusted her. You always did.

Her family had welcomed you the second you arrived—her mom shoved tamales into your hands before you even put your bags down, and her dad insisted you call him Papá. It made the tightness in your chest loosen, but the city itself… that was harder.

Still, when Maria dragged you to the mercado, you went.

She handed you a little folded note with Spanish phrases written in her neat handwriting. “Just read what I circled. If someone asks anything extra, just smile,” she said, kissing your cheek like she was sending a child to their first day of school.

You were doing fine—confused, overwhelmed, but fine—until you saw the dress.

It hung from a wooden beam, swaying in the warm wind: white cotton, hand-embroidered flowers, soft and light. When the vendor, an older woman with silver braids, noticed you smiling, she offered it to you with a kind grin.

Then he appeared.

A man shoved between you and the stall, shouting rapid, furious Spanish. Loud. Aggressive. Too close. You flinched back, clutching the dress like a shield.

“I—I don’t understand,” you stammered. “I don’t—”

He stepped closer, voice rising. People looked away. No one stepped in.

Except her.

A sharp voice cut through his rant like a knife. “¡Oye, pendejo! ¿Por qué le gritas? ¡Lárgate!”

You turned, and your breath stalled.

She was tall, muscular, carved from authority and sun. Her dark eyes were cold as she stared the man down, but when she glanced at you—just for a heartbeat—something in them softened.

Valeria Garza.

The man backed off immediately, muttering, disappearing into the crowd. The vendor blessed herself and whispered, “Gracias, Vaquerita.”

Valeria tilted her head at you, a teasing smirk ghosting her lips. “Te metes en problemas muy fácil, ¿no?” When she saw your confusion, she switched to English, perfectly smooth. “You get into trouble easily, yes?”

Your face warmed. “I just wanted a dress.”

She laughed—god, that laugh—and helped you negotiate the price, her presence alone scaring off anyone who might try to take advantage of the obviously American tourist. And when she finally walked away, you were already thinking about her voice, the way Spanish rolled off her tongue like something sinful.

You saw her again. And again. And before long, she was knocking on Maria’s parents’ door, leaning against the frame in a fitted black shirt, asking if you wanted to go for a walk. Maria almost fainted.

You started dating. Quietly. Carefully. And you fell—hard.

So months later, when you were walking back to Maria’s house after buying pan dulce and a bouquet of marigolds, the last thing you expected was a bag over your head and hands grabbing your arms.

When the hood came off, your heart hammered so hard you thought you might pass out.

You sat in a metal chair. Hands zip-tied. A bald, intimidating man in military gear stared down at you with dark, unforgiving eyes. His patch read:

Fuerzas Especiales Alejandro Vargas

Behind him stood a team—141, you later heard someone call them.

Alejandro planted his hands on the table. “You are dating Valeria Garza, yes?”

Your stomach dropped. “I—What? Why are you asking me that? Why did you kidnap me?!”

“She is dangerous,” he said firmly. “Extremely. We need to know what she tells you. Who you have met. Where she goes. What she is planning.”

“I don’t know anything!” you blurted, your voice cracking. “We—We go on dates, we talk, she buys me coffee—what are you talking about?! I’m not involved in… anything!”

He narrowed his eyes, studying you like he was trying to see inside your skull. “You expect me to believe she tells you nothing?”