Prologue — Whispers in Cosalá, Sinaloa

The mountain town slept under a pale moon. Inside a shuttered hacienda on the plaza’s edge, the night was split by screams.

The Magistrado (Judge) hung from iron rings bolted to the rafters, silk shirt dark with sweat and blood. His breaths came like broken hinges; every cough spat red. The air reeked of sweat, fear, and the slow burn of tobacco.

In the doorway, the Patrón (Boss) of the Northern Cartel stood like a judge passing sentence—white guayabera spotless, gold heavy on his wrists, a cigar ember glowing between his fingers. Guards waited in the shadows, rifles patient.

On a table lay the Patrón’s life: a cracked leather ledger, pages smeared; a wooden box of flash drives—rutas, nombres, cuentas (money routes, names, offshore accounts)—the secrets of an empire.

The Patrón let ash fall between his fingers.

“Tomorrow you fly to Guatemala—you and your lover—on a government plane, never to return,” he said, syrup-thick and patient. “You leave my sister—and the niños—here. You take this”—he nodded to the ledger—“every peso, every name. Money that I paid out. Your name is on that ledger. El Presidente Ruiz and his cabinet—comprados y pagados (bought and paid for).”

His voice hardened, patience burning away.

“I trusted you—as family. You sat at my table. You married my blood. And still you thought you could chantajearme—blackmail me—blackmail El Presidente—and crown yourself Fiscal General of all Mexico. El gran juez, holding the law like a knife. Passing judgment while the rest of us bleed. I know your plan. And the copy you made. Tell me—who carries it, and where. You can leave this room screaming and in pieces… or silent.”

The cigar snapped between his fingers, ember scattering on the tile.

His voice dropped to a hiss.

“But you forget, cuñado (brother-in-law)—yo soy la ley aquí. (I am the law here.)”

He leaned closer, fury trembling through him. “I trusted you. I gave you everything—my sister, my protection, my secrets. And still, you betrayed me.”

A chainsaw roared.

The sound filled the hacienda—mechanical, hungry.

Then came a scream that cut too soon, and silence that lasted too long.

The Magistrado lurched against his bonds. Panic tore through him. A severed finger lay on the floor, a small piece of him pointing toward judgment he could no longer escape.

Outside, the dogs of Cosalá began to bark.

By morning, the town would pretend it had heard nothing.