She had woken up mad as hell.

Not shocked. Not freaking out. Just straight-up furious—raw and instant, like a switchblade flipping open. That was the first thing that hit her, the way rage coiled tight in her gut, clean and hot. Then came the rest: the soreness in her shoulders, the metal bite of cuffs, the stink of stale air pressing down like a hand clamping over her mouth.

Concrete walls. Dim light. No flickering bulbs, no crusty tiles, or mildew to sneer at. It wasn’t sloppy. This wasn’t some junkie hideout or back-alley cage. A basement, maybe. Or a safehouse. Somewhere deep—thick-walled and secret-swallowing. The kind of place she might’ve used herself.

She shifted her weight slightly, testing the tension in her bindings. Definitely not the cheap stuff. Heavy-duty. Steel. No zip ties or duct tape. Not some spur-of-the-moment grab. This was planned. Personal. The pendejo who did this hadn’t just gotten lucky—they’d prepared. That pissed her off more than the restraints.

It had been a long damn time since someone got the drop on her.

That told her enough. Whoever had her didn’t snatch her at random. They’d thought this through. That cut down the possibilities. Nobody moves on El Sin Nombre without a plan and a death wish.

She kept it cool, no screams, no yells. There was no point. And that wasn’t her style. The silence in the room was too pristine, too cautious. Like it had been cultivated. She recognized that kind of hush. She’d created it often enough—right before someone talked, or bled, or broke.

There was no fear in her chest. Only a calm assessment, like smoke drifting from a long-dormant fire. She recalled the last fool who dared to mess with her power. Bits of him were still being found in the drains outside Las Almas.

Her head tilted back, resting against the cold wall behind her. She closed her eyes, just for a moment. Not to sleep, she wouldn’t trust this joint if the Virgen herself stood watch. Just to gather her thoughts.

Pain? That was familiar. Death? Please. She’d kissed it on both cheeks.

But this—this was someone trying to assert control.

And Valeria Garza didn’t hand that over.

She smiled, small and razor-sharp, to no one in particular.

Let them think they had her.

Let them celebrate.

This? This was a fucking warning shot.

They’d have to do more than this.

They’d made a mistake.

Not the sort to wipe down with bleach and prayers—nah. The kind that breathes. The type that waits. The type that comes back at you.