Ashes of the Empire.

With a glass of mezcal in one hand and blood still drying on his knuckles, Alejandro Rivera stepped barefoot onto his balcony's cool marble before the sun had even risen over the Sierra Madre. The city spread out beneath him, akin to a kingdom in a state of submission. The neon signs buzzing over late-night eateries, shady clubs, and cartel-run casinos were among the last remnants of nightlife that faintly illuminated the streets. The mezcal burned its way down Alejandros' throat as he inhaled deeply of the mountain air, which was purer than the filth that clung to his soul. Silent as ever, he didn't flinch when Hector came up behind him. "It's finished," Hector declared. Smoke and years of murder had left his voice gravel-stained. "Ramírez will not speak anymore." Without turning, Alejandro nodded curtly. "Did he confess?" "Two more were mentioned by him. One we had already suspected. The other..." Hector paused. "Belonged to the family..." Alejandro lowered his glass in a sharp exhale. It was without a doubt... There was money in this business from betrayal. Eventually, every oath broke and every hand turned over. No amount of blood could ever overcome ambition. When Alejandro bled someone he once called a brother, he had learned that lesson the first time. Stepping back into the suite, he entered a world made of pain and genius through tall glass doors. Everything shone, including the black marble floors, the golden chandeliers, and the enormous oil painting of a flaming phoenix hanging over the fireplace. There was no metaphor. Alejandro deserved to be called that. El Fénix, the man who destroyed kings and created empires out of ashes, had fought his way up from the gutters of San Lorenzo. And now something invisible was attempting to destroy him. He poured himself another drink and went to the window to watch the dusty rose of the horizon lighten. "In the past six months, how many men have died, Hector?" "Seventeen verified," Hector answered. "Everything belongs to us... Everyone was targeted. Far too tidy... It's too tidy. Too silent. too invasive." More than one person was stealing his lieutenants. His legacy—his cartel—was being meticulously dismantled by someone. Alejandro's mouth tightened. "This isn't your typical war. Family is what this is..." Though he remained silent, Hector agreed. Alejandro took another sip of the mezcal, his tongue numb from the smoky fire. Someone was planning somewhere, scuttling through the shadows he once possessed like a ghost. They were also familiar with him. close to home. Enough to silently dissect his operations. Enough to murder the men who had accompanied him from the start. sufficiently aware of his one real flaw, which is his past. Alejandro swiveled, stroking a picture that was nestled in the corner of his desk. It featured a young child barefoot and covered in dirt standing next to a happy man wearing a gold watch and a sharp jaw. "Dad," or the individual whom he had previously thought was his dad. It had all begun to unravel the day he had found that lie. It was someone else's blood that flowed through his veins, not the Rivera family's. Someone of authority. A person with a grudge. El Granjero, that man, had now appeared. At first, it was just a whisper just jungle rumors. a militia-wielding farmer. A vengeful ghost. Then came the murders. Avoid squabbles. No messages. simply going missing. managed to demolish each stronghold Alejandro had constructed using only his hands. El Granjero however, wasn't just a gangster. He was resourceful, patient, and most importantly, intimately familiar with Alejandro's methods. With a flat voice, Alejandro declared, "I want the traitor in our house found... Today... I want all of the cells cleaned." Each phone sounded. Each payroll was checked three times. "He is being fed by someone inside..." Hector said. "And when we find him?" Alejandro turned to face his oldest friend at last. "We kill him by burning him alive, ahead of the others. People don't spit in my face or eat from my hand..." He went over to the desk and pulled out a small, battered ledger from a drawer. Deals, dates, and names. The foundation of the empire. He gave it a single tap. "Before it reaches the bone, we detect the rot..." The villa was buzzing with tension by mid-morning. They called for men. They had their arms out. Every hallway had dogs sniffing for gadgets. After ten years of enduring betrayals, Alejandro watched it all with a sense of calm. This was not the first attempt to defeat him. However, it was their first time being successful. With a clenched jaw, Hector returned in the afternoon. "It's more profound than we initially believed. Safehouses in three different regions have been hit. There are two missing accountants. Millions have been moved from your foreign accounts..." Alejandro's gaze squinted. "And there was nothing seen by anyone?" "Hermano, like ghosts... We may not even be aware that we are bleeding..." Alejandro squeezed his nose bridge and let out a breath. "Then it isn't war. The way it's done..." The city didn't feel like it was kneeling when Alejandro stood on the balcony once more that evening. It seemed to be evaporating. "Camila," he heard before he saw her. Among the final women in his life to express her opinions. She stepped next to him and dangled a cigarette from her lips, saying, "You look like a man already mourning his funeral..." Alejandro gave a sly smile. "I'm just taking in the scenery while I can..." "You used fire and fury to build this empire," she remarked. "Avoid being robbed of it by ghosts..." His eyes were weary but unwavering as he gazed upon her. "It's the most difficult to kill ghosts..." She gave him the cigarette. He didn't smoke, but he did this evening. Alejandro wandered through his compound's halls as midnight drew near, gazing at the men who had pledged allegiance to him. It could be any one of them. As he passed a mirror, he saw a reflection of himself. shirt covered in blood. eyes that never blink. The monarch was losing his temper. He muttered a single name in the silence of his room, the one he hadn't dared to utter out loud for years. "Abel..." The farmer. The spirit. his uncle.