Chapter 1 - THE WOLF IN THE FRONT SEATThe Illusion of ServitudeSan Pedro Garza García looked like a utopian postcard at 6:00 AM, but underneath its pristine manicured lawns and towering palms ran the raw, unfiltered sewage of unchecked wealth and impunity.
My reflection in the rearview mirror of the bulletproof Mercedes-Maybach was unrecognizable. A few months ago, Mateo was a broken skeleton holding a dying child in a state-run hospital. Today, Mateo was the immaculate chauffeur—complete with a custom-tailored navy suit, white gloves, and a face as expressionless as stone.
"Mateo."
The voice from the back seat was like grinding glass over velvet. Doña Victoria De la Vega. She didn't look at me when she spoke; she never looked at people whose salaries she paid unless she was reprimanding them. She was busy skimming the social pages of El Norte, checking to see which Monterrey elite had hosted the most lavish charity gala the night before.
"Yes, Doña Victoria?" I replied, keeping my voice measured, flat, and entirely submissive.
"The AC is too low. Turn it up two degrees. And make sure we take the private toll road. I refuse to look at the wretched street vendors near the stadium this morning. It ruins my digestion."
"Understood, ma'nan."
I shifted into drive, easing the multi-million-peso vehicle out of the fortress-like gates of the De la Vega estate. As the iron gates closed behind us, I caught a glimpse of the security cameras panning overhead. They had facial recognition, motion sensors, and direct feeds to a private security firm run by former military contractors. But they didn't have my rage.
Rage is an invisible cloak. When you have nothing left to lose, you become entirely immune to fear.
For the past three months, my strategy hasn't been about brute force. You don't bring a gun to a war against billionaires; you bring an executioner's pen and a master key. While Doña Victoria thought I was simply opening doors and fetching her dry cleaning, I had quietly spent my nights studying the mansion’s architecture, mapping the blind spots in their CCTV system, and—most importantly—getting close to the one person in that house who despised the family as much as I did: Arturo, the head of household security.
Arturo was a bitter ex-cop who had spent twenty years covering up the De la Vegas' crimes, embezzling small fortunes from their petty cash accounts, and drinking himself to sleep in the guardhouse. I knew his secrets. I knew about his gambling debts in downtown Monterrey. And two nights ago, I left an envelope on his desk containing a bank receipt with fifty thousand pesos and a single note: The De la Vegas are sinking. Join the winning side, or go down with them.
My phone buzzed silently in my breast pocket. It was a text from Maria, the elderly nurse I hired to watch over little Sofía while I was on duty at the mansion.
“Mateo, Sofía had another coughing fit around 4 AM. Her breathing is shallower today. Please be careful. We need the medicine from the pharmacy by tonight.”
A sharp spike of agony pierced my chest, instantly replaced by pure, blinding ice. Hold on, my little angel, I whispered silently, gripping the leather steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. Your mother’s killers are about to pay for every single gasp of air you have to fight for.
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"Drive faster, Mateo," Doña Victoria snapped from the back, tapping her diamond-encrusted watch against the armrest. "I cannot be late for the board meeting at the philharmonic. People of our stature set the clock for this city."
"Yes, ma'am," I said, my lips curling into a microscopic, invisible smile. Set the clock all you want, Victoria. Your time is running out.
