The ivory card sat on the wooden counter like an unexploded bomb. Paulina’s hands shook as she dropped it back onto the surface, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief.

The city lights of Paseo de la Reforma blurred into streaks of red and yellow as Santiago’s armored sedan tore through the night. The atmosphere inside the car was suffocating. Marco drove with white-knuckled precision, while Santiago sat beside me, meticulously loading the magazine of his Beretta with cold, deliberate clicks.

“They think they have the upper hand because they took my son,” Santiago whispered, his voice dangerously low. “They don't understand that a cornered wolf doesn't negotiate.”

“Santiago, if they hurt Matteo—!”

“They won't,” he interrupted, grabbing my hand and squeezing it with an intensity that anchored my trembling soul. “Because we are going to burn their new syndicate to the ground before they even lay a finger on him.”

The Monument to the Revolution loomed against the midnight sky like a massive, skeletal cage. The plaza was deserted, swept by a bitter wind that carried the scent of rain. Standing near the central columns were three masked figures, holding a terrified, shivering Matteo between them.

As we stepped out of the vehicle, a harsh voice echoed across the open plaza.

“Stop right there, Vitale! Drop the briefcase and step back, or the kid takes a bullet!”