Chapter 1 - THE SOUND OF DEAFENING BASS
The air inside Vértigo, the most exclusive and fiercely guarded private club in San Pedro Garza García, vibrated with a bassline so deep and violent it felt less like music and more like a second heartbeat thumping directly against the ribcage.
Outside, the opulent streets of Monterrey’s wealthiest suburb were quiet, draped in the velvet blackness of a humid Mexican midnight, slicked with the faint residue of a passing drizzle that made the pavement reflect the neon glow of luxury high-rises. Inside, however, the world was a sensory storm of blinding strobe lights, expensive smoke machines, laser beams cutting through artificial haze, and the unmistakable aroma of wealth: unadulterated perfume, imported tobacco, and the sharp, smoky sting of aged mezcal.
At the center of the VIP mezzanine, elevated above the sprawling sea of sweating, writhing bodies on the main floor, sat Mateo Garza.
He looked every bit the master of his domain. Dressed in a bespoke charcoal blazer tailored in Milan, his shirt buttons carelessly unfastened to expose a sun-bronzed throat and a heavy platinum chain, Mateo leaned back against the plush black leather of the wraparound booth. He held a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid and ice, looking down upon the crowd with the heavy, unearned arrogance of a man who believed the universe had been custom-built to serve his ego.
To his right, draped across his lap like a designer accessory, sat Valeria.
Valeria was everything Mateo’s public image required: long, honey-blonde hair cascaded over bare shoulders, a micro-dress made of emerald sequins that caught every flicker of the strobe lights, and a laugh that was as loud as it was empty. She traced a crimson fingernail along the sharp line of Mateo’s jaw, giggling as he whispered something vulgar into her ear.
Around them, a sycophantic retinue of hangers-on—men who lived off Mateo’s erratic investments, business partners who needed his approval, and women vying for a spot in his inner circle—laughed, drank, and toasted to his endless, fabricated greatness.
“To the undisputed king of real estate,” shouted Eduardo, one of Mateo’s chief development associates, raising a magnum of champagne high into the air. “May his pockets stay heavy and his enemies stay six feet under!”
A chorus of cheers erupted around the table. Glasses clashed. Ice cubes rattled. Valeria squealed with delight, pressing her cheek against Mateo’s neck and inhaling his cologne.
Then, piercing through the wall of sound like a sharp knife, a sterile, persistent electronic chime cut through the booth.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
Mateo didn't even blink. He didn't look down. He simply kept his arm locked around Valeria’s waist, taking another slow, deliberate sip of his mezcal.
Across the glass table, half-buried under a scatter of lime wedges, used napkins, and empty shot glasses, Mateo’s sleek smartphone lit up the dark surface with a stark, cold white backlight.
The caller ID flashed continuously: Wife.
It was the tenth time in less than thirty minutes that the screen had illuminated with that single, irritating word. Camila. The name felt like an unnecessary anchor dragging at the heels of a man who believed he was meant to fly.
Valeria noticed it first. She pulled back slightly, her emerald-draped torso shifting as she looked down at the glowing screen. A shadow of annoyance crossed her heavily contoured face, instantly ruining her porcelain pout.
“Baby,” Valeria whined, her voice dripping with a sultry, calculated irritation as she tapped Mateo’s chest. “Are you seriously not going to answer that? It’s been buzzing nonstop for the last half-hour. That vibration sound is driving me insane. Can’t she see you’re busy?”
Mateo glanced down at the screen. His mouth twisted into a hard, cynical smirk.
He didn't feel a shred of guilt. In fact, a wave of cold, arrogant amusement washed over him. To Mateo, Camila was nothing more than an inconvenient domestic fixture—a woman he had married three years ago because her family name carried a respectable pedigree in local banking, a woman who had spent the last eight months growing large, swollen, and constantly complaining about morning sickness and lower back pain.
“Leave her,” Mateo said dismissively, his voice dripping with absolute contempt as he waved his free hand toward the phone. “She’s just being dramatic.”
His friends around the table chuckled knowingly. One of them, a sleazy-looking PR consultant named Beto, shook his head.
“Women get like that when they’re nesting, man,” Beto laughed, leaning forward. “They lose their minds. Five minutes alone in a big house and they think the world is ending.”
Mateo leaned back further into the leather cushions, basking in the validation of his inner circle. He felt like a sultan surrounded by his court.
“You know how women get when they’re pregnant,” Mateo announced to the table, loud enough for everyone to hear his dismissal of his own flesh and blood. “Completely unstable. Emotional about every little thing. She probably wants me to drive across the city at midnight because she has a craving for artisanal tacos, or she wants someone to massage her swollen, ugly ankles.”
Valeria threw her head back and laughed, a high, musical sound that bounced off the mirrors. “Ugh, so needy. Why do you even let her call you when we’re out? You spoil her too much, Mateo.”
“Not anymore,” Mateo replied smoothly.
With a careless, flicking motion of his wrist, Mateo reached across the table, picked up the phone while it was vibrating mid-call, tapped the red rejection icon, switched the device instantly to airplane mode, and tossed it back onto the couch cushion behind him as if it were a piece of garbage.
The screen went dark. The buzzing stopped.
The silence of the phone felt absolute, even against the thunderous roar of the club’s sound system.
Mateo wrapped his arm tighter around Valeria’s waist, pulling her flush against his chest, crushing her sequins into his blazer. He lifted his crystal glass high above his head, the amber liquid catching the green laser light.
“To my last night of freedom before becoming a father!” Mateo roared over the music.
The table erupted. Glasses smashed together in a chaotic toast. Laughter, music, and smoke swallowed the moment whole.
May you like
Mateo completely forgot about the phone. He forgot about the house. He forgot about the woman carrying his child.
And miles away, inside a silent, towering mansion in the most exclusive, isolated gated community of San Pedro Garza García, his wife was lying broken at the bottom of a twenty-step Italian marble staircase, drowning in her own blood.
