Chapter 6 – Matías
The door to the council chamber creaks on its hinges like an old threat, a sound that carries more weight than it should.
It echoes down the hall behind me like an omen—a whispered reminder that this room, this seat, this role—none of it was meant for me.
It’s been Tomás’ birthright from the start.
Everything in this place seems to remember him, and none of it recognizes me.
When I step inside, the air congeals with strain and scrutiny.
It always has done. Only, now I’m not just dropping by in passing; no, now, I get to be a permanent fixture in this space I’d never envied my brother in the first place.
The room is cooler than the corridors but saturated with concentrated aromas—a mix of cigar smoke, old wood polish, aged leather, and legacy. The kind that settles into your bones, weighs down your lungs, and watches every move you make.
La Mesa, the elders, are convened around the council table, a slab of carved mahogany, wide enough to seat ten, polished until the candlelight glints off its surface like the gleam of unsheathed blades.
This table has outlived more men than I can count, and it will outlive me too.
The legends who died by decisions made here—some by bullets, others by poison or whispers—are still etched into the grain.
You don’t inherit this table. You try to survive it.
I lower myself into Tomás' typical chair. It groans mournfully beneath me, as if it, too, resents my presence. My brother used to sit here like it was built for him. He’d lean back, half a cocky smile curving his lips, drink in hand and being gesticulated expansively with, and his voice smooth enough to seduce even his enemies.
He made diplomacy look like theater; every word was rehearsed—I’d caught him, once, at it in front of a mirror in the middle of the fucking night and had laughed about it for the rest of the year—but he always delivered as if impeccably improvised.
He made them believe they mattered. He made them like him.
I’m not Tomás. I don’t give a fuck about being liked. I care about respect, and they make it clear I do not have theirs. Tomás could feign being unconcerned by others’ censure. I don’t know how to not look like I’m pissed off when they are—and, inevitably, they will be—pissing me the fuck off.
In wait, I sit straight-backed, tense, every muscle locked in place like I’m bracing for impact. My hands rest on the arms of the chair, but they want to fist. My breathing is even, but only because I’ve trained myself to keep it that way. Inside, I’m a storm of jagged edges.
Herrera flicks ash into a crystal tray, his lips curled with disdain.
He never hides it. Salas adjusts his cuffs, pointedly looking anywhere but at me.
Toribio watches silently, tapping his heavy signet ring against the arm of his chair—a rhythmic, deliberate beat that frays my nerves.
Magdalena, my mother, though she’s made it clear she’s no such thing when it comes to these meetings, sits poised near the end of the table, back straight, fingers laced together in her lap.
Her face is carved in stone—dignified, impenetrable.
"The Venezuelan shipment is delayed again," Herrera says. His voice is dry and sharp, sandpaper dragged over gravel. "Customs at the port are dragging their feet. Military presence is complicating our routine."
I nod once curtly. "We reroute through Cali. Shift the load west. The back corridors are quieter."
Salas scoffs. "Quieter, yes,” he says. “But longer. Exposure increases. Those roads aren't secure."
"Then we secure them," I retort gruffly. "We push before they become a problem."
The silence that follows is a verdict in itself.
Not outright disapproval—no, these men are more skilled than that.
It’s subtle. The way Toribio’s fingers slow.
The way Salas reclines, feigning disinterest. The way Herrera’s brow lifts a fraction, just enough to suggest that I’m still being tested. Always being tested. Always failing.
I can see it coming when Toribio taps again. "Your brother would have waited,” he sighs, delivering the jab I’d been waiting on. “Explored the terrain first. Found a soft point, not forced an entry."
The ghost of Tomás drifts across the table, seated at every corner of this room, smirking at my missteps. I feel him everywhere. The man they admired. The man they trusted.
"My brother also ended up with half his skull scattered across jungle mud," I say, sharper than I meant to. The words cut, raw and unfiltered. What lingers in the aftermath is colder.
No one has a reply for that. It almost keeps me from regretting spitting it out.
Except for how I can’t ignore how Magdalena doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her attention.
There is no reprimand in it, no, there’s no room for that when we are in these seats.
There’s no support either, not unless it is earned by most, if not all, of the elders.
There’s just the still, assessing gaze of a woman who has learned to survive every battlefield with composure.
"Risk and reward are married in our world," she says finally. Her voice is soft, but every syllable is precise, poised. "But there is a difference between boldness and recklessness. You’d do well to keep that in mind."
All I can do is stare at her, and bite back everything I need to scream in her face, that I would scream until I was blue in the fucking face, if I truly thought she’d listen.
I want to scream that everything I do feels reckless because I’m grasping at a crown I never asked for.
That I wish I had died instead of him. That I grieve the motherfucker more than her, that I knew him best, that I raised him after Papá died, even if he was older.
That she has no fucking idea how much it kills me, every second of every minute of every fucking day of my miserable goddamn life.
But I don’t. There’s no point.
So I force out another nod, and acquiesce: "We’ll send Arturo to secure the corridor. Gabo will reinforce it. We’ll have checkpoints every ten kilometers. No one slips through."
A pause follows. It should end there.
Of course, it doesn’t.
Toribio is the one to break it, voice oily and casual. "Speaking of checkpoints and alliances," he says, drumming his ringed fingers on the polished wood, "how is the new union settling? A quick shift, that—your brother’s bride becoming your own. But the Arias Cartel has always valued… continuity."
He doesn’t smirk. No, that would be too crass.
He simply leans back in his chair, feigning civility, while his words twist like a blade.
It's obviously a tactic meant to test me.
Measure the bruise under the skin. Unfortunately, it works.
My jaw ticks and I know they can see it.
The room watches me in quiet anticipation, like jackals sniffing for weakness in the air. I meet Toribio's gaze without blinking.
"I’ve been married a day," I say flatly. I’ll be damned if I give away how the barb stings like slapping sunburn.
The look on Noa’s face floats in my mind, standing in the garden, all riled up and ruddy-faced, asking me why any of this matters.
"If anyone has a pressing need to discuss bedsheets and bloodlines, perhaps they should’ve saved it for a wedding toast. Now we’re stuck chatting about the riveting details of shipments until either you or I keel over. "
The hush that follows isn’t quite approval, but it isn’t amusement either. It’s tension, reeled back in before it could snap.
Herrera exhales smoke in a languorous cloud, eyes narrowed to serpentine slits. "Fine,” he waves off. “But if this falls apart, the blood’s on your hands."
"Then I’ll make sure no one lives long enough to see it bleed," I return, nodding again.
Eager to get the fuck out of there, I rise from the chair. Its groan sounds like relief this time. I don’t want to delay leaving any more than I have to. I can’t stand to be here. I don’t want to breathe in the remnants of my brother’s charisma anymore. It burns too much.
The corridors beyond the council chamber are quieter now, but I can still hear the echo of my own pulse, a dull thud in my ears as I walk.
I don’t head straight for my ride, waiting outside with Gabo.
I’m not going to get away so easy. I know she’ll follow.
She always does. Like a shadow in silk, like smoke that drifts just behind the flame.
Magdalena’s footsteps are soft—too soft for someone who commands an empire. She never hurries, never speaks first, never betrays emotion unless she chooses to. Yet I can feel her presence before she even speaks.
"You handled them better than I expected," she says, not quite a compliment, not quite a critique.
I don’t stop walking, though my gait slows. "High praise."
"You didn’t bark like a mongrel,” she lists off, just in case. “You didn’t posture. You were firm. That’s something."
Translation: "But not enough."
"It’s a start," she sighs.
We walk in silence for a few steps, our heels tapping faintly against the stone floor. The walls here are lined with old portraits—past Elders, past leaders, men in suits with hollow eyes and steel rings. Their legacy wraps around this place like ivy, choking everything with expectation.
"Tomás used to smooth them out before the meeting even began," she says eventually. The words leave her so softly, I almost think I’ve imagined them. Then, she adds: "He’d have Herrera laughing and Toribio nodding before they even sat down. They ate out the palm of his hand."
I don’t respond. I know what she’s doing. Maybe she doesn’t mean it as comparison, maybe she does. It digs under my skin either way. If I were to point it out, she’d call it strategic reinforcement. This is the woman who raised us, for better or for worse.