Cartel Justice
A bullet, a steak, and a coin flip in Culiacán.
⚠️ Content warning: This story contains graphic violence, sexual situations, coercion, and strong language. Reader discretion advised.
They sat her in a chair that had seen more confessions than comfort, a high-backed relic borrowed from a priest or a judge. The warehouse—an old produce bodega off the libramiento on Culiacán’s east side—smelled like old wood and motor oil; the single bulb swung just enough to make the shadows blink. Mango crates were stacked like barricades, and somewhere outside a motorbike coughed, cicadas sawing at the dark. Her dress—coffee-brown, off the shoulders with a line of stubborn buttons down the front—was torn at the seam, lace at the sleeves ragged where hands had grabbed. Dried rain freckled her collarbone. She watched the room the way a cat watches a street—mean, patient, already mapping the exits. Long dark hair clung in glossy strands, parted clean at the center; her mouth was painted the color of red wine and refused to tremble.
Gabriela.
She had walked into El Anzuelo—Ignacio Saldaña’s favorite restaurant in Tres Ríos, Culiacán, all white tablecloths and brass—while he was dining. The two escorts at his shoulder rose; she shot them first, crisp and economical. Ignacio’s hand fluttered toward his napkin like it might bless him; she put him down next and the room shattered into screams and silverware. Then she leveled the pistol at Carlos across the table, held his eyes, and set the weapon on the linen. She toed Ignacio’s body out of the chair, pulled the plate closer, and ate his dinner while the room froze and the onlookers gawked.
After three unhurried bites, she stood, wiped her mouth with his napkin, and walked out into the rain. Carlos let her go and sent a crew to retrieve her—polite, surgical—which made everyone more afraid of her than if she’d vanished.
Carlos entered without his usual entourage. He waved the guards away and slid the steel door until it kissed shut, a private sound in a public building. The new boss was supposed to swagger. Carlos brought silence instead—the kind that makes men lean closer.
He clocked the bulb, the chair, the slick of water where her hair had dripped; the torn bodice and ragged lace; finger‑bruise marks blooming at her upper arms; the full, heavy set of her chest behind the stubborn buttons.
“Señora,” he said.
Her mouth curved slow, a sin disguised as a smile. “If you wanted another dinner date, Carlos, you didn’t have to send the goons—you could’ve called. How does the crown feel? You’re welcome by the way.”
Carlos folded his jacket over a crate and sat on another, elbows on knees, like a cousin at a wedding he didn’t want to attend. Up close her eyes were green shot with gold—jungle light pretending to be calm water. He’d caught up on the stories; none of them had prepared him for her. Then or now.
“You killed Ignacio,” he said. “Now they want me to kill you. Call it cartel justice.”
“Cartel justice is why Ignacio is dead,” she said. “Call it justice, karma, revenge—whatever helps you sleep. It all has a way of catching up.”
The bulb did a slow pendulum. It painted a white stripe across her cheekbone, then moved on. The guards outside were pretending not to listen. She knew it; he knew it. The night knew everything and told nothing.
“Let’s start with the part that bothers me,” Carlos said. “You were close enough to smell his cologne. You dropped his two escorts before they touched their triggers. You had a clean look at me. You didn’t take it.”
He let the silence stretch.
“Killing me might have bought you more time,” he said at last. “Instead, you kicked a dead man out of his own chair and ate his steak.”
She shrugged, and the torn fabric sighed. “Time? I already had what I came for. The after didn’t matter—and the steak looked too good to waste.”
He laughed once, short, like something heavy slipping off a shelf. “You’re Víctor Madrigal’s daughter, aren’t you?”
For a heartbeat the room changed shape. Her jaw set, then softened; a muscle ticked near her eye. She pressed thumb to thumbnail until the half‑moon went white, breath catching once before it smoothed. Diesel and rain leaked in under the door and she blinked it away, the name cutting clean and then cauterizing.
“I was—before Ignacio had him killed,” she said. “My father built a shipping empire out of nothing. When he refused to add product to his manifests, your piece‑of‑shit boss had him tortured and disappeared. I buried an empty box.”
“So tonight was about revenge. Why spare me? How do you know I didn’t have a part in it?”
“Before your time. I was twelve when it happened. I did the research; you’ve only been a name in the organization for a couple of years.”
He let that sit, studying her. No tremor in the hands, no rabbit‑quick swallow; even her breath kept its steady, defiant metronome. Fear makes a noise—keys rattle, chair legs skitter—and she made none. To his irritation, he liked that. Power is easier to measure against someone who won’t flinch.
“So what am I to do with you now?”
“It’s a coin flip,” she said. “Heads: you do what everyone expects—put a bullet in my head, call it a night, celebrate becoming número uno.”
“Bullet in the head for killing a cartel kingpin—that’s letting you off easy.”
He stood and leaned in, hands braced on the chair’s arms, close enough to breathe her in. Rain and orange blossom, a thread of spent powder; underneath, garlic‑butter from the steak and the faint aroma of the warehouse. She didn’t back away.
“I have rules,” he said, voice even. “No women. No children. Ignacio loved exceptions; I don’t. But tonight you put me in a corner, and rules bend.”
“No, señora,” he said softly. “Nothing so swift. I call in los plebes to work you over—tenderize the meat. Then I throw you out there for the wolves to chew on, violate you in every way possible. Get you hooked on something so bad you don’t even remember your name. Then, when it’s time to shoot you, I put one in your gut and let you die slow.”
She met his gaze like a blade catching light. “If you’re going to traffic me, Carlos, stop auditioning the speech, and let’s get on with it.”
He smirked—an intake of air, a flicker of teeth—as if weighing how much of her was act and how much was iron.
“Just curious,” he said, voice low, “what does tails look like?”
She didn’t move much—just a tilt of her chin, eyes softening to smoke, a smile that never reached the corners. It was enough to make him blink. Rain and orange blossom lifted between them.
“Tails,” she went on, “I fuck you right here and now in a way that you have never been fucked before. As if my life depended on it. Then, after, you make me your Lady and we run this shit together.
Carlos’s fingers tightened on the chair’s back, then eased. “Madrina,” he repeated, tasting the word. “Godmother of Tres Ríos.”
“Behind every great man.”
“Was this always your plan?” Carlos asked, intrigued.
“I’m improvising as I go along.”
Carlos stared into her eyes, for a long moment, searching for any clue that she really thought this was a game, and not as serious as a sealed oil drum thrown into the sea.
Gabriela stared back at him, the only shift was the rise and fall of her ample chest as she waited for him to make a decision.
Carlos stood, looking down at her, the entire weight of a drug empire weighing on his shoulders. He fished out a heavy, two-tone ten-peso coin.
He flipped it—casual, like a woman’s life wasn’t riding the arc.
Gabriela’s eyes never left his as the coin went up, then down. Its bright chime on the concrete, the slow roll as it settled—nothing else but breathing.
Carlos looked first. “Well, look at that, Señora Gabriela.”
A beat.
“Tails.”
She gave him one slow blink, then stood—the chair scraping concrete like a gunshot in the quiet. The torn dress whispered against her thighs.
Carlos didn’t move. He watched her rise, a queen claiming a throne of powder and shadows. The coin lay between them, a silent witness.
“Well?” she said, her voice a low current in the damp air. “Do you need it in writing, jefe? Or are you going to fuck me like you mean it?”
He crossed the space in two strides. His hand was in her hair, fingers twisting into the dark silk at her nape, not gentle. He yanked her head back, exposing the long line of her throat. His mouth was a breath from hers.
“You think this is a negotiation?” His voice was grit and gravel. “You’re in my warehouse. That coin just bought you a different kind of dying.”
Her lips curved. “Then get on with it.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t a kiss of seduction; it was a claim. Hard, punishing, his teeth catching her lower lip. She met it with equal ferocity, her mouth opening under his, tongue tangling with a taste of blood and defiance. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to claw at the buttons of his shirt, ripping them free. The pop pop pop was louder than their breathing.
He broke the kiss, shoving her back against the rough wood of a mango crate. The impact shuddered through her. “You wanted to be Madrina?” he growled, his hands finding the torn seam of her dress. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
He ripped the fabric the rest of the way. It gave with a sound like tearing skin, baring her to the waist. Her bra was simple, black lace, and he tore that too, the fragile material snapping. Her tits spilled into his hands—full, heavy, tipped with dusky, hard nipples. He palmed them, rough, his thumbs scraping over the peaks.
Gabriela arched into the touch, a sharp gasp escaping her. “Is that all you’ve got?”
In answer, he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue lashing the taut bud, teeth grazing with just enough threat to make her moan—a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed off the high ceiling. His other hand kneaded her other breast, possessive, leaving pale marks on her skin that would bloom purple by morning.
He switched to her other tit, giving it the same brutal attention. Her fingers were in his hair, pulling, not to stop him but to demand more. Her hips began to roll against nothing, seeking friction. The warehouse air was cool on her wet skin.
“On your knees,” he ordered, pulling back.
She looked up at him, eyes glazed but sharp. “Make me.”
He didn’t hesitate. A hand on her shoulder, downward pressure. She went, the concrete biting into her knees through the ruined dress. His belt buckle was already open, his zipper down. He freed his cock—thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. He tapped it against her cheek.
“Open,” he said.
She did, taking him into her mouth in one slow, deliberate slide. Her tongue flattened against the underside, her lips stretching tight around his girth. She looked up at him, green eyes holding his, as she began to move.
Christ. Her mouth was hot, wet, expert. She sucked him deep, her throat working, then pulled back to swirl her tongue around the head, tasting him. She took him all the way to the back again, her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. One of her hands came up to cradle his balls, rolling them gently, while the other gripped the base of his cock, stroking in time with her mouth.
Carlos’s head fell back, a curse torn from him. He fisted his hand in her hair again, setting a punishing rhythm, fucking her mouth in earnest. The wet, filthy sounds filled the space between the crates. She moaned around him, the vibration travelling straight to his spine. Her free hand slipped between her own legs, under the tattered hem of her dress.
“You touching that cunt while you suck my cock?” he rasped.
She hummed an affirmative, the sound vibrating through him. He could see her arm moving, her fingers working herself. The scent of her—musk and orange blossom and rain—rose up, mingling with the oil and dust.
He pulled himself from her mouth with a slick sound. “Up. Turn around. Bend over the crate.”
She rose, swaying slightly, her lips swollen and wet. She turned, bracing her hands on the splintered wood, presenting her ass to him. Her dress was rucked around her waist. She was bare underneath. The dim light from the swinging bulb glistened on the wetness between her thighs.
Carlos ran a hand over the curve of her ass, then brought it down in a sharp slap. The crack echoed. She jolted forward, a choked cry leaving her. A red handprint bloomed on her pale skin. He did it again, on the other cheek, watching the flesh tremble.
“You like that, puta? You like a little pain with your fucking?”
“Pain?” she panted, setting her jaw. “You hit like a perra. “You want obedience, earn it. Otherwise, you’re just noise.”
He spat into his hand, slicking his cock, then guided the broad head to her entrance. He didn’t ease in. He crushed her resistance in one hard thrust as he buried himself deep.
She screamed—a raw, shattered sound that was half agony, half triumph. She was so fucking tight, her cunt tightening around him like a vise, choking his thick shaft hot and silken. He held himself there, painfully deep, letting her feel the invasion, her inner muscles flutter wildly around him.
“Dios,” she breathed, her knuckles white on the crate. “Fuck.”
He began with a purpose. Slow, deep, punishing strokes that dragged every inch of his cock against her walls. Each thrust rocked her whole body forward. The crate scraped across the floor. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear.
“This what you wanted, Gabriela? This the power you were looking for? To get railed in a dirty warehouse by the man who owns you now?”
“You don’t… own… ah!… you don’t own this,” she gasped, meeting his thrusts with a roll of her hips. “You’re just… fucking it.”
He chuckled, a dark, breathless sound. One hand snaked around her front, sliding up underr her chin, taking a firm hold. He squeezed hard enough to trouble her breathing. Pulling her, arching her back while his rhythm on her cunt never faltering.
The dual sensation tore a moan from her. Her green eyes stared at the ceiling. One hand cover the hand at her throat, the other holding onto the crate. “Yes… Carlos, fuck, like that…” she wheezed.
He could feel her tightening around him, her cunt beginning to pulse. Her breaths came in sharp, desperate pants.
The steel door clattered. A sliver of hallway light cut the room.
“¿Jefe, todo bien?” one of the guards called, easing the door open with his boot.
Carlos didn’t turn. Gabriela did—chin up, eyes murder-bright, dress torn, and pussy being pounded. The bulb swung, throwing a knife of light across her mouth.
“Lárguense, pendejos.” Her voice was smoke and glass. “Get the fuck out!”
A command like a gun hammer thumbed back.
“Carlos didn’t turn; if anything, his voice and his rutting sharpened. ‘You heard her. Vámonos.’”
The door snicked shut. The light vanished. Only breath and the sound of his hips finding her ass came back to fill the room.
“Come,” he commanded, his voice thick. “Come on, my dick. Show me what the future Madrina looks like when she falls apart.”
“Fucking... make... me!” She choked back as she met him thrust for thrust. Her hips a counterpoint to his.
His free hand shot out, then came down, a sharp three-finger slap over her clip, then another, each one like an electric shock to an already overstimulated nervous system. It tipped her over. Her body went rigid, then shattered. A guttural cry ripped from her throat as her cunt clenched around him in violent, rhythmic spasms, milking his dick. He kept fucking her through it, prolonging the waves, watching her come undone against the rough wood.
Her unraveling triggered his. With a final, deep push, he rammed himself against her and came, hot pulses flooding her depths. He grunted, his hips jerking against her ass, his forehead against the back of her head. His cries, sharp and blinding, as euphoria washed through him.
His grip tightened, and Gabriela found that taking in air was put on pause. Still, she bucked into his release, her eyes rolling back into her head as a second mini orgasm whited out her senses.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her choking, them coming and the distant cicadas. The scent of sex, sweat, and mangos hung heavy in the air.
Slowly, he pulled out. Releasing his grip from around her neck as she slumped over the crate, spent. Desperate for breath.
Carlos straightened, tucking himself back into his pants. He looked down at her, at the red marks on her skin, her neck, the ruin of her dress, the sweat-damp hair clinging to her back.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her spine. She flinched, then stilled.
“Get up,” he said, his voice low. “We have business to discuss. Godmother.”
He lifted his coat and settled it over her shoulders, the fabric heavy with heat and rain. “Keep the coin,” he said. “It’s worth more now than what it can buy.”
He offered a hand. She took it. He helped her up, steady as a promise, and walked her to the door.
When they stepped into the corridor, one of the guards snorted—a dirty, knowing sound, the kind men make when they think a woman’s been reduced to a rumor. Carlos turned. The look he gave him stripped the grin and emptied the sound out of the hallway.
Gabriela didn’t shrink. She lifted her chin, shoulders square beneath his coat, the ten‑peso coin bright in her palm as she walked past—claiming the corridor like concrete meant to be crossed.
“Madrina,” the guard corrected quickly, eyes dropping. The others followed, gaze averted, the word moving down the line like an order.
Carlos didn’t explain. He just took Gabriela’s hand an led her down the hallway. Kings don’t explain Queens to Pawns; Pawns just learn to move out of her way.”
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How a bullet, a dinner plate, and a coin flip rewrite power in Culiacán. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #CartelJustice #Culiacán #Noir #CrimeThriller