I woke up at midnight to find my fiancée dragging our unconscious, blood-covered housekeeper down the hallway. When I shouted, "What did you do to her?" she replied that it had been an accident. I didn't argue; I called an ambulance. Hours later, at the hospital, the woman opened her eyes and whispered something about my dead brother and a seven-year-old boy that changed everything.

Before I could stop her, she slammed the heavy lever down. The study plunged into absolute darkness, illuminated only by the faint green glow of my computer monitor before it, too, flickered and died as the backup generator spun up.

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the leather journal, the micro-SD card, and the legal documents, shoving them into the inner pocket of my wool coat. As I turned around, a heavy thud echoed from the hallway—someone had kicked open the heavy oak front doors of the estate.

"Alejandro!" a gruff voice shouted from the foyer. It wasn't one of our regular security guards. It was a stranger's voice, cold and professional. "Secure the perimeter! Check the study!"

I slipped out through the private side-exit of the study that led directly into the indoor garden courtyard. The morning air was freezing, mist clinging to the manicured tropical plants and stone statues. Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind me.

"He's heading toward the greenhouse!" a voice yelled.

I ducked behind a thick stone planter as a beam from a high-powered tactical flashlight swept across the patio. My heart hammered against my ribs. I had to get out of the estate, get to Iztapalapa, and find Nicolás and his son before Camila’s mercenaries locked down the city.

Working quietly, I climbed the ivy-covered brick wall separating our courtyard from the neighboring property—an empty mansion currently undergoing renovations. I hauled myself over the top, scraping my palms against the rough stone, and dropped heavily onto the neighboring lawn on the other side.

Sirens wailed faintly in the distance—not the police, but private security alarms triggered by the breach. I kept low, moving through the shadows until I reached my car parked two blocks away on a quiet residential side street.

I threw myself into the driver's seat, locked the doors, and started the engine. My hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel as I navigated out of Lomas de Chapultepec, heading east toward the working-class neighborhood of Iztapalapa.

As I drove through the waking city, the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, painting the smog-choked sky in bruised shades of purple and orange. I dialed my head of corporate security, a trusted former military colonel named Héctor Morales.

The phone rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "Valdés."

"Héctor, listen to me carefully," I said, keeping my voice low and urgent. "My estate has been compromised. Camila is working with an outside syndicate. They just raided my home."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Mr. Valdés, where are you? Are you safe?"

"I'm on my way to Iztapalapa to find my brother's son. Héctor, I need you to mobilize our loyal security units. Not the regular guards—bring in the veterans from the old division. Secure Rosa at the hospital immediately. Put a twenty-four-hour lockdown on her room."