Chapter 3 - Echoes in the DarkMidnight in San Pedro Garza García brought an eerie, oppressive silence. The sprawling mansion, protected by armed patrols, security cameras, and motion sensors, felt less like a home and more like a high-security prison. In her newly appointed room—a luxurious suite larger than her entire family's home in Santa Catarina—Valeria sat wide awake.
Mateo lay sound asleep beside her on the massive king-sized bed, his breathing heavy, one small hand clutching her shirt as if letting go meant disappearing.
Click.
The sound was faint, barely audible over the hum of the centralized air conditioning, but it came from the hallway. Not from the front doors, and not from the service stairs.
It came from the north wing.
Valeria gently extricated herself from Mateo’s grip, sliding off the mattress with the silent grace of someone who grew up navigating cramped, creaky quarters with four siblings. She slipped on her sneakers and cracked open her bedroom door. The hallway was bathed in the pale, ethereal glow of the moonlight bleeding through the arched stained-glass windows.
At the far end of the corridor, the heavy, iron-reinforced mahogany doors of the north wing—doors that Alejandro claimed were locked and untouched for two years—were standing slightly ajar.
A sliver of golden light spilled out onto the dark marble floor.
Heart hammering against her ribs, Valeria crept forward, hugging the shadowed wall. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to stay safe, to remember that the man downstairs owned weapons, men, and an empire built on blood. But the memory of Mateo’s shattered, terrified eyes pushed her forward.
As she reached the doorway, she heard it: a faint, tinny lullaby playing from an old music box, intertwined with the soft, muffled sound of a woman humming.
“Duermete mi niño, duermete ya...”
Valeria’s blood ran cold. Alejandro’s wife had died two years ago in the ambush. The police reports, the news headlines, the grief-stricken mourning of the cartel boss had been plastered all over national television. So who was singing inside the sealed, forbidden wing of the mansion?
She pushed the heavy door open just enough to peer inside.
The room was vast, draped in white dust covers, smelling faintly of expensive perfume and decay. In the center of the room sat a crib, surrounded by burning candles casting long, dancing shadows. Standing beside the crib was a woman in a blood-stained ivory dress, her back turned to the door, slowly rocking back and forth.
"Who's there?" Valeria’s voice trembled, breaking the heavy stillness.
The woman stopped humming. The music box wound down with a harsh, metallic screech. Slowly, agonizingly, the figure turned around.
Valeria’s breath caught in her throat. It was a face she recognized instantly from the framed portraits downstairs—Elena Ríos, Alejandro’s deceased wife. But her eyes were wide, sunken, and hollow, and across her throat ran a jagged, horrific scar.
May you like
Before Valeria could scream, a heavy, cold hand clamped violently over her mouth, dragging her backward into the deep shadows of the corridor.
A familiar, gravelly voice whispered directly into her ear, hot with absolute panic and fury: "If you want to keep breathing, you will never speak of what you saw in this room."
