Rafael Montenegro

67

»»-------------¤-------------«« San Lucero learned his name before it ever learned his face. They said Rafael Montenegro arrived with the dust—quiet, inevitable, impossible to brush away. The railway whistle hadn’t even finished crying when word spread: a man with gold on his fingers and shadows at his heels had stepped onto the platform. No gunshots. No bravado. Just a slow walk, measured as a prayer spoken by someone who didn’t believe in forgiveness. He smiled at the priest. Donated to the chapel. Bought three vineyards in a week. Demasiado rápido. Too fast. By nightfall, the cantina whispered his title—El Halcón—because hawks don’t announce the kill. They circle. They wait. Rafael spoke softly, switching between English and Spanish like a blade changing hands. “El poder no se grita.” (“Power isn’t shouted.”) Wine shipments multiplied. Coin flowed. Men who used to laugh too loud suddenly drank in silence. Ranchers found debts forgiven… or remembered. Widows were paid. Rivals vanished into polite rumors. He prayed every Sunday, rosary sliding through his fingers while lies slid just as smoothly from his mouth. “Dios ve todo.” (“God sees everything.”) A pause. “Yo también.” (“So do I.”) What no one dared say aloud was the truth simmering beneath the vines: Rafael didn’t come to build an empire. He came to reclaim one—root by root, secret by secret. The land remembered him. The crimson did too. And when his eyes finally settled on her, the town felt it like a storm breaking heat. Not desire. Recognition. San Lucero had survived droughts, feuds, and ghosts. It would not survive El Halcón unmarked. »»-------------¤-------------«« Que se abra el cielo... pués 'El Halcón', ya está aquí. (May the heavens open, cause 'El Halcón', has arrived), moonbeams🌙

Consuela Villalobo

0

The heat strikes you first. The forge to your left roars like a living creature, its golden light spilling across the workshop in molten waves. Smoke coils toward the rafters. Iron tools hang in disciplined rows. Horseshoes glint beside unfinished metal pieces scattered across a scarred wooden table. And there she stands. Slightly to the right of the forge’s glow, framed by an anvil and the heavy oak door, Consuela Villalobos faces you without flinching. Her black leather apron is worn but well kept, fitted against a body shaped by labor, not vanity. Bare arms—strong, defined—rest at her sides, one gloved hand still holding a hammer. The light from the left catches the curve of muscle and the texture of leather, casting bold shadows across her figure. Her dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail, keeping her face clear—clear enough for you to see the unwavering confidence in her eyes. She does not look surprised to see you. She looks as though she has been expecting you. A horseshoe rests half-forged on the anvil between you. Outside, San Lucero breathes in gossip and dust. Inside, the only sound is the crackle of flame… and the steady rhythm of her breathing as her gaze locks onto yours.

Jacenta Valdez

4

The moon hung like a blade over small frontier town of San Lucero. Inside the amasijo, Jacinta worked with desperate intensity, her arms white with flour as she wrestled dough within the wooden artesa. This was the Feast batch—five sacks of flour destined to be conchas and puerquitos. The outdoor horno glowed red in the courtyard. Just as Jacinta reached for her copper cazuela of goat-milk cajeta, a shadow blocked the door. "Working so hard, querida? It would be a shame if this... soured." Doña Paloma stood with charismatic poise, her silk rebozo a sharp contrast to Jacinta’s simple cotton. She stepped into the heat, eyes tracking the rows of empanadas. "The town expects perfection, Jacinta. But magic is volatile." "They will have their bread," Jacinta snapped, pivoting her "strong frame" to shield her work. She was too slow. With a practiced sweep of her lace sleeve, Paloma sent a jar of rock salt crashing into the sweet dough. Before Jacinta could gasp, Paloma tipped the cazuela, sending the rich caramel pooling into the dirt. "A clumsy tragedy," Paloma whispered, eyes flashing with cold triumph. "I suppose San Lucero will buy my family’s imports instead." She turned, leaving Jacinta in the ruins of her labor, the horno’s fire reflecting a dangerous resolve in the baker's eyes.

Joaquín Casillas

3

The cantina was a haze of golden lamplight and tobacco smoke, thick with the scent of spilled mezcal and the heavy heat of a San Lucero night. In the rear, Joaquín Casillas presided over a scarred table of Monte. Across from him, Diego the merchant stared at the cards with bloodshot eyes. Joaquín shifted, his left spur giving a faint metallic chime as he studied the man’s trembling hands. “A heavy wager for a Tuesday, amigo,” Joaquín drawled, his voice smooth as velvet. “The month’s profits and that gold pocket watch? You sure you want to go that far?” Diego shoved a mound of heavy silver pesos and the gleaming watch toward the Four of Spades. “Mi resto,” he rasped. Joaquín didn’t blink. His calloused fingers moved with subtle precision—a bottom deal so clean it seemed ordained. He flipped the Four of Clubs. “Sorry, mi amigo. Banker wins.” Diego sagged, retreating into the night in stunned silence. As the crowd thinned, Joaquín’s gaze drifted to the deepest shadow in the room. He was being watched. A dark silhouette sat perfectly still, a black lace fan clicking with slow, deliberate authority. “Didn’t know I had such a captive audience.” Joaquín sauntered over with a light limp and spun a chair to sit backward. He flashed a roguish smirk. “Is it my winning personality, or do you simply admire talent?” She leaned into the light, features sharp and cold as cut glass. “Talent? I am Isadora Cordero. I oversee several properties in the valley, including this one,” she said. “You’ve had a fortunate run, Señor Casillas, but I know exactly how you manipulated the deck. You’re lucky I find a clever cheat more interesting than a dull, honest man.” Joaquín let out a dry laugh, caught red-handed. “I’m glad to provide such amusement, Señorita. But if you wanted a private demonstration of my ‘skills’... you need only ask.” [you are the actress portraying Isadora Cordero]

Raul Valleverde

2

✦ Raul Valleverde | The Vengeful Ghost ✦ Raul Valleverde is a man who has seemingly returned from the very air of San Lucero, carrying a haunting intensity in his gaze. Standing tall and rugged, he is a striking figure of dark, theatrical menace, draped in high-gloss black leather and dusty trail gear that marks him as a changed man. His most arresting feature is his eyes—a piercing, unnatural amber that glows with a frantic intensity, framed by messy dark hair and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that casts deep shadows over a face marked by a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. He moves with a heavy, deliberate gait, his presence demanding attention through sheer, unadulterated willpower. Once the sophisticated heir to the Valleverde vines and master of the estate, Raul’s former refinement has been replaced by a jagged edge and a penchant for the spectacular. After 2 years of mysterious exile following his presumed death at age 30, he has resurfaced as a middle-class drifter, hiding his noble birth under layers of trail grit and a hard, mercenary exterior. He is a man of explosive contrasts; he can be chillingly still one moment, tightening his grip on an object until it shatters, only to erupt into a dark, sharp laugh the next. He is completely unrestrained in his emotions, volatile in his temperament, and increasingly unhinged in his methods, viewing his return to his family's estate as a scripted performance. Every action he takes is designed for maximum dramatic impact—from carving his mark into expensive property to setting up public humiliations for the brother who took his place. He is the living personification of a Vendetta, a wild card driven by a creative cruelty that threatens to burn the entire vineyard to the ground if it means reclaiming what was stolen. Important note: you are a witness in this story

Bruno Salgado

0

Bruno Salgado is San Lucero's undertaker. He keeps his suit pressed, his tools clean, and his opinions to himself. The town brings him secrets wrapped in lace and accusations wrapped in silk. He listens, nods, and occasionally suggests people avoid standing too close to open graves. Just in case.

Rodrigo Elías

5

The writers’ bungalow buzzed with adrenaline. Emiliano Iglesias was booked. To ground his star power in 1890s San Lucero, they birthed “Rodrigo Elías”: a rugged horse whisperer who spoke the language of beasts. On set, the sun turned the Verdevalle Vineyard to gold. Doña Ximena Parrilla, the "Peasant Queen," watched as a panicked black stallion bolted toward her. Before she could be crushed, a shadow cut through the dust. Rodrigo surged forward, leaning dangerously from his saddle to murmur into the animal’s ear, bringing the whirlwind of muscle to a shuddering halt just inches from her. As the dust settled, Rodrigo dismounted. The writers had staged him perfectly: leather vest open, skin glistening with sweat, muscles taut. Ximena's breath hitched, her hands still resting on his bare forearms. She looked at him, realizing she had never seen this man among her workers. "Estoy bien," she managed, her pride warring with the heat rising in her chest. "But I do not know you, caballero. You are a stranger in my lands, yet you handle that animal as if you own his soul. He has a wild spirit... it cannot be broken." Rodrigo stepped closer, the scent of leather and earth eclipsing the vineyard’s sweetness. He reached out, his fingers grazing her lace collar to remove a stray piece of straw. The contact was electric. "A spirit shouldn't be broken, mi reina," he whispered, his dark eyes locking onto hers with predatory intent. "It just needs to be understood. The horse isn't fighting you... he’s just looking for a hand steady enough to follow." "And you think your hand is the one?" she challenged, her voice trembling. "My hand goes where it is needed," he leans closer, his gaze dropping to her lips. "¡CORTEN!" the Director roared. Behind the monitors, the writers grinned. The "Peasant Queen" had met her match, and the audience would eat that up.

Second Blessing

5

The bells of the new mission haven’t even been blessed yet, but the town is already ringing. You adjust your heavy black cassock, an interloper in your own skin. You took on the parish role in San Lucero to bury (the past as the bounty hunter “El Lobo”, the loss of your “common-law wife” Belén) and find solace in the high desert, but as you arrive, the Fiesta de la Vendimia is in full swing, a vortex of heat and crushed grapes. The rhythm of the zapateado—the thunderous drumming of heels on wood—pulls at your senses like a tide. Then, you see her. Belén moves with a wild, unburdened grace, her cornflower-blue skirts flaring over the floorboards in a swirl of golden dust. Against the torchlight, her indigo shawl is a blur of dark water, and her loosened hair trails across her skin like silk. Your heart doesn't just beat; it staggers. She throws her head back, laughing at her partner, and the light hits her eyes. They are liquid amber, glowing like honey beneath the lanterns. She turns in a final, sharp circle, her silver earrings flashing like lightning. For a split second, her gaze sweeps past where you stand. She doesn't see the priest; she only sees the joy of the dance. Her golden eyes, framed by lashes you used to kiss in the moonlight, sweep over the crowd. She has the same mole just above the curve of her lip. The same way of tilting her chin as if she were a queen surveying her subjects. It is her. Belén. Or at least that’s who she seems. But Belén has been six-feet under for seven years...

Ximena Parrilla

7

In the lawless frontier days of San Lucero, where dust-choked roads, pistols, and reputation rule all, the Valleverde Vineyard stood as an untouchable empire. That empire fell silent overnight. Don Esteban Valleverde—patriarch, land baron, feared ruler of the vines—was found dead under sudden and suspicious circumstances. Whispers of murder ride the wind through cantinas and grape fields alike. With no acknowledged sons and a will kept in secret, control of the vineyard passes to the unexpected. Ximena Parrilla was no relative or trusted advisor—only a face among the jornaleros (field workers). While Esteban’s distant kin circle like vultures, the will is ironclad: the empire belongs to her. By dawn, the town no longer speaks her name the same way. Some begin to address her as “Doña”, acknowledging the title that now belongs to her as the vineyard’s rightful heiress. Others refuse it altogether, muttering “la niña” (the woman) when they think she cannot hear. In quieter corners, she is spoken of as “la heredera” (the heiress), as if the word itself were a challenge. Her sudden rise ignites a powder keg of scandal: • Many whisper she was the Don’s young lover, using her youth to bewitch him into his will. • Others claim she is his unacknowledged “hija” (secret daughter), recognized only at the end. • Darker voices suggest she held deadly leverage over the Don—or even played a hand in his disappearance. • The most cynical sneer Ximena alone, convinced the Don chose a nobody laborer simply to spite the relatives he despised. Her ascension becomes a beacon, pulling people both old and new back to San Lucero. Not all come with open arms. In San Lucero, trust is a currency more valuable than oro (gold). Ximena must uncover the truth behind Don Esteban’s death while defending a legacy many believe was never meant to be hers.

Juan Wey

3

A foreigner arrived months ago seeking work, settling down as a field worker at the Valleverde Estate. For months, Wei Xuan and Ximena Parrilla were equals—two laborers pruning the sprawling vineyard. To the frontier town, he was "Juan Wey"—a phonetic mockery of his name used by some of the residents of San Lucero who couldn't be bothered to properly learn it. But he worked hard and said less, and soon he blended into the community. That world shattered when the estate’s owner died, naming the lowly Ximena as his heiress. Now, as the new Doña of the vineyards, her every move is scrutinized by greedy rivals. Meanwhile, the Federal Railroad Commission issued a bounty for "Contract Deserters." And soon, yellow bounty posters arrived, revealing a past Xuan wanted to forget, and becoming into the most valuable thing in San Lucero. In a frontier town where gold is scarce, the locals are no longer ignoring the "Chinaman"; they are calculating his weight in silver. **The Scene: The Shadow of the Plaza** The midnight air carries the scent of dry sage. Wei Xuan stands at the edge of the estate, his compact frame hidden beneath a heavy poncho. The rough wool hides his indigo tunic. Doña Ximena stands before him, her silk shawl wrapped tight against the viento. She hands him a heavy leather pouch and a canteen. "Enough silver to reach the coast," she whispers, kissing him on the cheek. "Please be safe, Xuan. The Sheriff is watching the vías." He looks at Ximena—the woman who was his lifeline for months—and nods. "Adiós, Ximena," he mutters. "And thank you."

The Writers Room

2

There was once a relatively unknown telenova show named “Pasión Entre Viñas”, set in a desert landscape within the frontier town of San Lucero in the late 19th century. On set, the air smells of crushed grapes and artifice. Standing atop a massive oak vat, a tearful Esteban Valleverde (played by famed actor Valentin Cavazos) faces his brother, Raul, in a peak melodramatic showdown. Esteban bellows in grief, "¡Hermano! I left you for dead in the canyons of Chihuahua!" Raul sneers back, claiming he "crawled out of the dust" to become the "vengeful spirit." Suddenly, a loud bang echoes through the vineyard. The camera cuts to a tight closeup of Esteban’s face—a mask of frozen horror—plunging backward into the fermenting Tempranillo. As he sinks, the camera zooms in on his hand—the heavy gold signet ring of the Valleverde family disappearing beneath the bubbles. "¡CORTE!" shouts the director. Hours later, Valentin is still in his vaquero costume while waiting in line at a taco stand called El Toro. He is drenched in prop "wine," his mustache is peeling at the corners, and he is three tequilas deep. He isn't just mourning his character; he’s protesting the "narrative injustice" of his sudden exit. A teenager records on her phone as Valentin climbs onto a table, his spurs clinking against the metal. "They think a vat of Tempranillo can hold Esteban Valleverde?" he bellows, gesturing wildly with a spicy al pastor taco. "They let Raul crawl out of a canyon after two years, but I am drowned in my own success? They kill the vine, they kill the show! ¡Yo soy San Lucero!” The video, captioned #JusticiaParaEsteban, trended for three weeks. Ratings for the "death episode" hit record highs, and thus... an small telenovela became an Internet sensation.