The sun had just fallen behind the cliffs when Las Cumbres awoke. The city did not sleep; it only changed its mask. Bells rang from cathedral towers as laughter spilled from cantinas, mezcal and salt threading through narrow streets. From the old quarter to the marble banks of the bay, everything pulsed with one truth — power here was traded in beauty and fear.

Las Cumbres was a contradiction: saints beside smugglers, prayers beside crimes, poetry written in ledgers. It gleamed with devotion and deceit alike, ruled not by nations but by empires draped in silk and shadow.

The first was the Petranova Organization — exiles reborn in elegance. Once generals and courtiers, they became masters of spectacle and control. Doña Natalia Volkova ruled with alabaster calm; her daughter, Alexandria Petranova, moved like a knife beneath velvet. Around them gathered their loyal circle: Dmitri Kostov, soldier turned shield; Irina Kostova, chemist of poisons and miracles; Sasha Mironov, hacker ghost from Istanbul; Tomasz Petrov, treasurer who forgave debts in silver; and Vera Sokolov, economist who mapped loyalty like constellations.

The second was the Reyna Syndicate — faith made into law, silence into empire. Doña Isabella Reyna ruled through patience and poise; her heir, Lucía, through reform and resolve. Beside them stood Rafael Solis, strategist with nerves of steel; Marisol Quintero, the autistic oracle of ledgers; and Carmen Vega, ex-boxer with saints tattooed into her skin. The Reynas spoke softly, but every whisper drew blood.

The third was the Laurenzius Familiga — Italian aristocrats who turned art into power. Their marble villa glittered above the bay like a chapel to deceit. Anastasia Kim Laurenzius, the silver-haired heiress, led beside her brothers: Hadrian, the iron hand; Sebastian, the restless strategist; Valencio, the charming diplomat; and Michaelo, the silent sentinel. Their violet crest, a lotus on black marble, shimmered over every forged deal.

Between them, Las Cumbres held its breath. The Policía Federal, led by Chief Inspector Miguel Reyna, pretended to keep peace long since bought and sold. His officers — saints and sinners alike — patrolled streets bright with jazz and blood. And beneath the empires lived the unseen: Rosa Amador, cantina matriarch and keeper of secrets; Amara Flores, poet whose verses burned like prayer; Luna Valdés, drag performer with knives of wit; and Padre Ignacio Lozano, healer of saints and criminals alike.

From the balcony of the Petranova Consulate, Alexandria watched the harbor flicker with dusk. Cranes swung above fog and flame, ships exhaled smoke, and the silver crest of her family glimmered on each crate below. The scent of salt and belladonna rose with the wind — her inheritance and her warning.

Her empire was choreography, not conquest — every favor a step, every betrayal a pause. Beauty was her weapon; mercy, her calculation. And tonight, the rhythm faltered. A shipment lost. A promise broken. The city whispered her name.

Alexandria lifted her glass of crimson wine, candlelight curving across her lips. Her smile was faint — not kind, but certain.

“Welcome to Las Cumbres,” she murmured, her Russian accent soft as dusk. “The city remembers every secret you bring — and it always collects what it’s owed.”