After we make a series of right turns, we reach a doorway blocked by two armed cartel men whose biceps are as thick as my waist. When they see Valeria, they break into smiles and quickly step aside. She rattles off something to the men in their secret language, and I guess it must have been a wisecrack because all three of them snicker.

This girl can make scary men with guns laugh.

I wonder briefly if I was the butt of the joke.

We walk through the door and straight into an after-hours club scene. A full-blown indoor grotto, picturesque and humming with bathing-suit-clad men and women dancing to bass-heavy music and drinking champagne. A boy in sea-green trunks screams, wild, before cannonballing into the pool, soaking a group of girls in tiny bikinis and stilettos. Every single one of them has Tape on their chests, the rich kid’s drug of choice.

I’m disappointed by my aunt’s cliché idea of fun.

But Valeria doesn’t stop to join in on the late-night revelry. Our path clears, and every head turns to watch as Valeria and I, a stranger in a Texas State Guard uniform, walk down the rocky pool’s edge before disappearing into what looks like a small cave entrance.

We’re met by a heavy door that requires her fingerprint scan to enter.

“Another party?” I ask, skeptical of what’s on the other side. A VIP section? Still not my idea of fun. But maybe I can get her to talk more if she partakes in the flowing champagne.

“It is,” Valeria says with a smile.

The door slides open, we step inside, and my heart jumps into my throat.

This is not a VIP party room. This is a torture chamber.

The four walls and ceiling are mirrored, as if the cartel takes pleasure in having pain reflected back at them.

What are you made of? the glass asks.

My eyes land first on a woman in her underclothes, strapped to a steel table, a wet piece of cloth clinging to her face. Her red-painted toes curl in agony as a cartel man in a designer suit pours water over her nose and mouth. She gags, fighting to breathe.

The woman and floor are both drenched. I avert my eyes from the bloodstained drain at the center of the concrete floor and see a young man wearing a slim black leather eye patch over his right eye. His swollen hands are cuffed behind his chair, which gives him a front row seat to the torture table.

He’s being forced to watch the woman drown.

The man’s stubble-bearded face is twisted in pain, his golden skin and dark curls dripping with water. He was waterboarded too, I realize with a sinking horror.

Did they pluck out his eyeball first? Is that his blood in the drain?

No. It’s an old wound. The Salazars would never cover up their work. It’s like art to them.

His single red-rimmed eye spares me a quick glance, and I see it fill with hate as he takes in my uniform.

He thinks I’m the enemy. My skin crawls underneath my costume, and I have to stop myself from shouting to the man, I’m not one of them!

I can feel Valeria’s sharp gaze on me, dissecting my reaction.

Am I the sort of guy who will yell for them to stop? Am I the sort who will try to run? Will I shrink from the screams, or will I laugh like Valeria?

Am I a Roth or a Wright?

What am I made of?

I pick my words carefully. She might just strap me up on that table next.

“What did they do wrong?”

With a simple lift of Valeria’s smooth hand, the torture stops. The woman beneath the cloth spits up a torrent of coughs and gulps for air.

Valeria breathes deep, enjoying the sounds of a woman struggling for her life. “The better question would be, What have they done right?”

I feel guilty even breathing while this woman drowns, bound to a table. Am I really going to just stand here and do nothing? Why aren’t I whipping Mira’s knife out from my boot, chopping off my pathetic puppet strings, and putting an end to all of this?

Concentrate. Think smart.

There are two of them, one of me. One heavy-duty gun to my knife, and whatever Valeria has up her silk sleeves.

And like the captive staring daggers at Valeria, I’ve learned that pleas for mercy are wasted breaths. They only make things worse.

The woman on the table suddenly goes silent. Her frail body falls slack against her ties, and for a painful second I don’t see her chest rising. Then a muffled gasp escapes from below the cloth. “Andrés . . . no puedo . . .” Andrés . . . I can’t . . .

The one-eyed man, who I assume is Andrés, finally cracks. “¡Tienes que pelear, mi amor! ¡Respira! ¡Lucha!” he screams in broken cries. You have to fight, my love! Breathe! Fight!

Valeria moves to the tormented man. Every one of his muscles strains as he battles to get to the woman beside him. The sight is unwatchable. His restraints are so fixed, he doesn’t move an inch. Valeria examines him, unmoved herself.

“They are always whining they don’t have enough water,” she says cruelly with a shrug of her slender shoulders, a familial gesture that shoots an ice-cold shudder down my spine.

“You disapprove,” Valeria surmises. I keep my mouth sealed. I’m petrified of what will come out, or in.

“I’m only giving them what they asked for . . . ,” she teases, signaling for the water to start again. “How is it my fault they don’t understand they want more than they can stomach?”

My own stomach turns.

“These two are thieves,” Valeria continues calmly, standing over the thrashing woman. “Falcons reported barrels of illegal rainwater hidden in their pathetic town. They thought they could steal from the capo . . . but she owns everything that touches this land. It’s amusing, really, imagining these mice trying to fight back.”

She switches her fixation to me. “Have you heard of the People’s Militia?”

“No,” I answer, using my voice to muffle the sounds of the woman’s smothered heaving. I’m going to crack any minute now. I clear my throat. “I’m guessing these two are members?” I say unfazed, almost dismissive.

Valeria nods, her dangle earrings swinging like Guard’s batons. “My family loses an obnoxious amount of time and resources making sure the People’s Militia stays a dead cause.”

These two are going to die. It’s a fact I have to swallow without flinching, but it goes down like shattered glass.

“Our sicarios work to make sure the outside world never hears their name. Their members hide and scatter, but there’s an infectious nest of them, aiming to plague the capo’s territory.” She saunters over to me and brushes back the strands of hair that block my eyes. “They’re not unlike your Common.”

She must’ve heard me stop breathing. “The Common isn’t mine,” I exhale, hoping it’s not my last breath.

She flashes that cutting smile. “You don’t think I saw the videos? I know your part in the Battle for Dallas.”

I stare Valeria square in the eyes, letting her know I’m made of steel as well, and we can cross swords all night and I won’t bend.

“Then you saw I was a prisoner of the Common. All I did that night was tell the city I’m a Roth. Call me selfish or arrogant, I wanted to come out of hiding and take my place next to my grandfather.”

“And what a night to do it,” she presses, trying her best to suffocate the truth out of me.