This wasn't just about the white powder moving through the VIP lounges of the hottest clubs; it was about the architecture of power. Every door in the city opened for him, not because they loved him, but because the alternative was a silence that lasted forever.

In the seventh chapter of this ascent, the air had grown thin. The alliance with the Italians was fraying at the edges, and the local police were no longer looking the other way—they were looking for a way in. José Antonio knew that in this game, you don't retire; you either become a legend or a ghost.

The flickering neon of 1990s Madrid didn't just illuminate the streets; it bled into the pavement, staining the city in shades of vice and ambition. José Antonio sat in the back of a darkened Mercedes, the leather cool against his skin, watching the chaos of the Costa Polvoranca through a tinted window.

To the world, he was the leader of "Los Miami." To the streets, he was .

As he walked toward the entrance, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. He wasn't just a man anymore; he was the king of a fragile empire, waiting to see who would be brave enough to try and take his crown.

He stepped out of the car, the bass from the nearby club thumping like a collective heartbeat. He adjusted his jacket, his expression unreadable. He had survived the streets of Aluche, survived the betrayals of his youth, and survived the first attempts on his life. They called him Immortal not because he couldn't die, but because he refused to stop living on his own terms.