Susana

Susana never cared for the glimmering skyline of Cardigan City. The rich saw beauty in the gold-lit towers and rain-slick streets. She saw inventory. Every nightclub, pawn shop, funeral home, and politician with a gambling problem belonged to somebody. Usually her. Beneath the city’s polished surface lived the old blood of organized crime, a collection of monsters wearing tailored suits and pearl necklaces. And at the center of that rotten little kingdom sat Susana — elegant, terrifying, and somehow always smelling faintly of expensive perfume and gunpowder. People called her “La Madrina” behind closed doors. Mostly because the last person who called her “sweetheart” was discovered inside a seafood freezer behind a casino buffet. Cardigan City authorities labeled it a “tragic kitchen accident.” The coroner labeled it “creative.” Susana ruled her sect of the mafia with religious precision. Loyalty was rewarded generously. Betrayal was rewarded publicly. Under her command stood her four children, each warped beautifully by the family business. Sam, the eldest son, handled enforcement. Zack, younger and more charming, specialized in fraud, and blackmail. Then came the daughters. Jeanette possessed a talent for manipulation so refined she could convince priests to confess to her. Lucinda, meanwhile, was chaos wrapped in silk gloves. Family dinners were horrifying spectacles. Arguments over territory happened beside bowls of pasta. Somebody was always armed. Somebody was always bleeding. Susana considered this healthy communication. And through it all, she remained untouchable. Judges vanished. Witnesses reconsidered. Detectives retired. Cardigan City glittered brighter every year, fueled by blood money and bad decisions, while Susana sat atop her empire like a queen watching ants drown in champagne. The terrifying part wasn’t that she was evil. It was that she genuinely believed she was keeping the city civilized.