Despite its wealth in drug production, the Triangle is still one of the poorest parts of Mexico. The vast majority of the people are still campesinos—peasant farmers—as they had always been. The fact that they grow poppies and yerba instead of corn is only a detail.

For most, life never changes.

It was good to be home.

“Is there where you grew up?” Magda asked, looking at the expanse of green field with the mountains in the background.

“Summers,” Adán said. “Actually, I’m a city boy.”

The car pulled through the gate then up the macadam road lined with junipers, tall and straight like soldiers on parade. It stopped in the crescent gravel driveway outside the main house.

“No moat?” Magda asked.

“Not yet.”

Magda looked at the main house, a two-story stone building with a central structure flanked by two wings that came out at a forty-five-degree angle. A large portico with marble columns stood at the front of the central structure; balconies were cantilevered from the second floors of the wings.

“It’s a mansion,” Magda said.

“More than I need or want,” Adán answered, “but there are expectations.”

A king must have a castle, whether he wants one or not. It’s expected, and if the king doesn’t build one, he can be certain that his dukes will.

Designing the renovation became a hobby of sorts in prison—Adán met with architects and builders, approved plans, even drew a few sketches of his own. It gave him something to look forward to.

So many of the narco-mansions are monuments to bad taste. Adán did his best to avoid gaudy, ostentatious displays, retaining the classic lines of old Sinaloa while still making sure that the house revealed the proper level of wealth and power.

The Barreras, after all, came to the Sierras in the early seventeenth century as hidalgos—Spanish gentlemen of fortune—and conquered the local Indians over centuries of brutal, bloody warfare. They were aristocrats, not indios like so many of the new nouveau-riche narcos.

So Adán felt an obligation toward restraint.

It was in his nature anyway.

He showed Magda around the house and then they went up to the master bedroom. The thick walls kept it cool in the summer and warm in the winter, and the maids had sprinkled the sheets with ice water.

After she and Adán made love, she asked, “So what do I do now?”

“Live?”

“As the lady of the house?” Magda asked. “Supervise the staff, organize parties, go shopping in Culiacán with the wives, get my hair and nails done? I’ll die of boredom. I need something else. Something to make money.”

Adán looked at her long, slender form stretched out like a cat and saw that she was fully awake and not going to let him sleep. “Money is not your problem in life.”

“It will be one day,” Magda said. “I’ll lose my looks, or you’ll grow tired of me, or I’ll grow tired of you, or you’ll start looking for some young pura señorita to start a new family for you. What am I supposed to do then?”

“I’ll always take care of you.”

“I don’t want to be ‘taken care of,’ ” she answered, “like some worn-out segundera put out to pasture. I want into the trade.”

“No.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Of course I can,” Adán said. But he admired her for trying.

“I could be useful to you.”

“Oh? How?”

“I could help you reestablish your Colombian cocaine connections,” Magda said.

“Nacho and Diego’s connections are my connections,” he answered.

“Please listen to yourself,” Magda said. “It only goes to show how much you need me.”

She’s making sense, Adán thought. Magda would be an effective ambassador. The Colombians would find a beautiful, intelligent woman hard to resist, and her advice to him had always been clearheaded.

“And what would you want for these services?” he asked.

Magda smiled, knowing that she’d won. “A piece of the cocaine I bring in. And the protection to make it worth something.”

“What else?” He could tell from the look in her eye that she wasn’t finished.

“A seat at the table,” Magda said.

“Which you already have.”

“Not the dining table,” she said. “The men’s table.”

“They won’t accept you.”

“I’ll make them accept me,” Magda said.

Now, as Adán looks out over the hills, he realizes both that he believes her and that it might not matter. Osiel Contreras wants him dead and has the men and the means to do it.

I need more force.

I need an alliance.

—

The table is set in the back room of an exclusive restaurant in Cuernavaca.

Meeting in neutral territory was Nacho’s idea, to put Vicente Fuentes at ease. Nacho has guaranteed everyone’s safety—Fuentes, the Tapias, Adán, and the twenty other important associates from Sinaloa.

Even so, everyone comes armed.

Plainclothes Cuernavaca police guard the door from other police, the media, and from the important narcos who haven’t been invited—Teo Solorzano and Osiel Contreras.

Adán makes a point by not even mentioning Magda’s presence, as if it’s a given and literally unremarkable. But she is remarkable—stunning in a gold lamé dress with a deep décolletage that if Vicente Fuentes doesn’t remark upon, he’s certainly thinking about as he leans over to kiss her hand.

Vicente looks up at Adán and says, “It must be Easter.”

“Why is that?”

“You’ve risen from the dead.” The line gets a laugh from the guests who’ve already come into the room. Encouraged by his audience, Vicente goes on. “You look good, Adán, for a corpse.”

The Fuenteses are originally from Sinaloa, and the family has ruled the Juárez plaza for years. Vicente doesn’t have the charisma or brains of his late uncle—he’s dissolute, flamboyant, too busy with coke and women to run his business well.

And he’s lazy, Adán thinks. Too lazy to work out solutions to difficult problems, so his only reaction is the easiest one—killing. He orders up murders like takeout Chinese food, and a lot of his people are tired of it. Afraid that a casual word or a misunderstanding could make them next, a lot of them came over to Adán after his return to Mexico.

Vicente resents it and sees Adán as a threat. Maintaining the relationship with Nacho, who moves vast weights of meth through Juárez, is the only reason he agreed to this meeting.

“When Nacho told me you were alive,” Vicente says now, “I wept.”

I’ll bet you did, Adán thinks.

Vicente asks, “Is Elvis here, too?”

The joke doesn’t sit well with Alberto Tapia. “You want to meet Elvis, Vicente? Because maybe we can work that out.”

Vicente reaches for the gun at his hip.

So does Alberto.

Nacho steps in. “Don’t make a liar of me, gentlemen.”

Vicente eases his hand away.

He believes he’s too handsome to die, Adán thinks, that it would be too great a loss to a world in need of beauty. Alberto waits for Vicente to back down first, and then, grinning, takes his hand away from his gun.

But it could have happened that fast, Adán thinks. Plans that I’ve spent years constructing could have fallen apart in a stupid exchange of insults. We run a billion-dollar business and act like nickel gangbangers. He makes a mental note to tell Diego to get his little brother under control.

Martín Tapia steps into the awkward gap. “Gentlemen—and lady—dinner is served.”

They take their seats.

Adán hates making speeches.

It was his uncle’s speech almost thirty years ago—at a dinner like this—that created the Federación, and Adán knows the men at the table are expecting an equal performance.

He’s afraid that he’s not up to it.

“We Sinaloans created the pista secreta,” Adán says. “The trade is in our blood, in our bones, in the water we drink and the air we breathe. We made it flourish. When the yanquis destroyed our homes and our fields and scattered us like dry leaves in the wind, we refused to die. We re-formed, we created La Federación, we divided the country into plazas and ran it.”