The next morning arrived like a hangover in velvet thick heat, silver skies, and the stench of old blood clinging to polished stone.
Arturo Camberos hadn't slept.
He sat in his study in a silk robe he hadn't changed since returning from the Cruz estate, a glass of warmed tequila resting untouched beside him. The room smelled like cedar and sweat. The curtains were drawn, the AC off. His hand trembled just slightly as he tapped his fingers against the armrest.
He'd sent his men to bury Dante in the eastern garden.
He hadn't gone out to watch.
He didn't want to see the camellias again.
A flower in the mouth. A circle of bloom and blood. No name. No threat. Just message.
He hadn't told anyone not his guards, not his personal secretary, not even the new girl he'd brought in from Querétaro. Not because he feared the gossip.
Because the message had been surgical.
It didn't want to warn him off.
It wanted to scare him silent.
And yet.
Arturo Camberos had never been smart enough to stay silent when he was scared.
He pulled the phone from the drawer.
Not his usual one.
The clean one. The gray phone with no case, no ID, no ties.
He unlocked it with a thumbprint from the wrong hand a dead man's hand, legally speaking.
The connection was already waiting.
"You're early," said the voice in smooth Italian-accented Spanish.
"I couldn't sleep," Arturo replied.
A pause.
"The dog?"
Arturo didn't ask how they knew. He just took a deep breath.
"Gone."
"And you believe this was a warning?"
"No. I believe it was an audition."
A short laugh.
"For who?"
"Someone who wants a crown."
"The girl?" the Italian voice asked.
Arturo hesitated. Not because he didn't want to admit it but because admitting it meant acknowledging she might not be a girl anymore.
"She's... calculating. She reads the room before it's built. And now the family's watching her too. Not just the men. Carmen. Even Mateo."
"So you want to stop her?"
"No," Arturo lied. "I want to make sure I'm not the one being stopped."
He slid a folder across the desk toward his own reflection in the office mirror. Old habit. It made him feel like the act was happening twice once for real, once in symbol.
Inside the folder: two maps.
Old trade paths. Nothing essential.
One marked Veracruz, the other a secondary Chihuahua crossing that hadn't been used in three months.
He held them up to the video camera embedded in the top of the phone screen.
"Consider this a token."
"Useful," the Italian said.
"I'm not crossing lines. Just giving you the lay of the land. You asked for routes these are quiet."
"And tomorrow?"
"You'll get more. If I feel... safe."
Arturo leaned back in the chair, stared at the ceiling, tried not to think of the sound Dante's body made when it hit the patio tiles.
"Have your people seen her yet?"
"The woman?"
"Yes."
"No photos have surfaced."
"They were at the party. Someone had to see her."
"Even ghosts cast shadows, señor Camberos."
"And this one?"
"Perhaps she's the one taking them away."
He ended the call.
His fingers curled around the rim of the glass, but he didn't drink.
Not yet.
Instead, he stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the hills beyond the city. The skyline shimmered in morning heat. Trucks were already moving. Shipments already crossing borders. A whole empire rolling forward like nothing had changed.
But something had.
Something was moving beneath the surface.
He grabbed his phone again, this time opening his personal archive.
Photos from the night before should've been uploading.
He remembered clearly:
• Sofía in the silver gown
• Sofía laughing, once
• Sofía during the dance
He'd seen half the room snapping photos journalists, cousins, even a senator's drunk daughter on her iPhone.
He opened his photo folder.
Nothing.
Just wide table shots. Candles. A blurry photo of Lucía's cleavage. A selfie he didn't remember taking.
No Sofía.
No camellia.
Not even an arm.
He frowned. Checked the time stamp. Flipped to the cloud archive.
Nothing.
He opened the family's internal social platform the one Isabella insisted on.
The party's folder was already active.
Photos of Mateo.
Photos of Carmen holding court.
Even Isabella toasting with the deputy governor.
But no Sofía.
Not one.
His hands moved faster now.
He searched the press feeds.
Nothing.
He texted a reporter he kept on his personal payroll. A gossip leech named Elías, who owed him more than money.
"Send me the shots from last night. Silver dress. Girl beside Isabella."
A pause.
Then:
"They're not in my file. Not a single one. I saw her. I have the time stamp. But the photos? Nothing. Just black static. Even the backup's corrupted."
Arturo's heart ticked sideways.
"How?"
"Like she was never there."
He turned back toward his study.
Something cold crept along the edge of his ribs.
"No one controls a room like that," he whispered.
But he didn't believe it anymore.
He sent one more text to the Italians.
"No photo yet. But I'll get you one. Trust me."
He didn't know if he could.
He didn't know if anyone could.