The master saw the bruises on the new slave… and what he did next left everyone in shock.

“Bring her here. Right now.”

Don Cristóbal Mendoza’s voice boomed across the courtyard of Hacienda San Miguel, making farmhands and servants lift their heads in surprise. It was unusual for the patrón to shout like that—especially under the unforgiving midday sun of Michoacán.

The murmurs died instantly as everyone saw foreman Rodrigo Salazar dragging a young woman by the arm. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her torn dress barely covered the deep purple bruises streaking her arms and part of her face. Her eyes were fixed on the dusty ground, her entire body trembling; her bare feet left small prints in the dry dirt.

Don Cristóbal—fifty years old, gray-mustached, usually severe—felt something twist in his stomach at the sight.
Just three days earlier, he had paid a hefty sum to slave trader Antonio Ferrer for this young woman who, according to him, was “strong and obedient.”

“What the hell happened to her?” he demanded—his voice controlled, but tight with anger.

Salazar released the girl’s arm with a rough shove and shrugged indifferently.

“That’s how Ferrer delivered her, patrón. She was already marked when she arrived last night.”

The young woman finally lifted her head. Her eyes—dark, frightened, yet somehow still dignified—startled the hacendado.

“My name is Catalina Ríos, sir,” she said, her voice hoarse but steady.

“Señor Ferrer punished me because I refused to do certain things during the trip from Veracruz.”

A ripple went through the courtyard.

Everyone knew Don Cristóbal as a hard but fair man.
But Salazar—well, everyone knew his reputation too.
Cruel. Heavy-handed. A man who enjoyed wielding power over the vulnerable.

Cristóbal walked slowly around Catalina, studying the bruises, the cuts, the marks of violence carved into her brown skin. His jaw clenched when he noticed the rope burns circling her wrists—evidence she’d been tied for a long time.

“How many days since you’ve eaten properly?” he asked, his tone softening.

“Four days, sir. Since we left Veracruz. Señor Ferrer only gave me water and hard bread twice.”

Despite her weakness, she held herself with quiet strength—something unbroken.

Cristóbal turned sharply toward his foreman.

“Salazar, go bring me Antonio Ferrer. Immediately. He must still be in town before heading to Guadalajara.”

The foreman hesitated, confused.

“Patrón… we already paid him. The merchandise is ours now—however it comes.”

“I said bring him,” Cristóbal snapped, his face reddening.
“And send for Doctor Hidalgo.”

He turned to an older house servant standing at the kitchen door.

“Doña Carmen, prepare a room in the east wing. Bring clean water, bandages, and soft food. Chicken soup, if we have it.”

A wave of shock spread through the courtyard.

The east wing was where important guests stayed—not newly purchased slaves.

Catalina looked confused, her eyes darting nervously as if expecting this to turn into some cruel joke.

“Sir… I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this? I’m only a slave.”

Cristóbal removed his wide-brimmed hat—a gesture of respect that made everyone stare.

“Because, Señorita Catalina, no one arrives in my hacienda in such condition. And because I have questions that need answers before this matter is settled.”

His voice was firm, but there was something else in it too—regret, maybe… or a shadow from a past he kept buried.

Doña Carmen gently took Catalina by the arm.

“Come, my child. Let’s clean you up and get some food in your stomach.”

As they walked away, Cristóbal remained in the courtyard, staring at the long shadows cast across the reddish Michoacán soil. His thoughts drifted to memories he wished he could forget—the cruelty he’d seen, the dehumanization that slavery normalized.

The sound of approaching horses snapped him back.

Rodrigo Salazar returned with Antonio Ferrer—the slave trader. Ferrer’s leathery, sun-darkened face showed barely masked irritation. A scar cut across his left cheek; his eyes were small and calculating.

“Don Cristóbal,” Ferrer said with a fake smile as he dismounted. “What a surprise to be summoned so urgently. I trust everything is in order with your new acquisition?”

“In order,” Cristóbal repeated, his voice icy.
“Ferrer, I paid you 800 pesos for a healthy, strong worker. What I received is a beaten, starved, traumatized young woman.”

He stepped closer.

“Does that sound ‘in order’ to you?”

Ferrer’s smile twitched.

“Slaves need discipline during transport, Don Cristóbal. The girl was difficult. She resisted—”

“Resisted what, exactly, Ferrer?” Cristóbal cut in, stepping toward him.

“Because she told me she refused to do certain things you demanded. And we both know those things had nothing to do with honest work.”

Ferrer’s expression hardened.

“With all due respect, what I do during transport is none of your concern. Once the sale is done, she’s your problem.”

Before Cristóbal could respond, Doctor Hidalgo arrived and rushed inside to examine Catalina.

Cristóbal watched him go, then turned back to Ferrer.

“Here’s what will happen,” he said with deadly calm.

“You will return half of what I paid—400 pesos—as compensation. And you will sign a document stating she arrived in this condition due to your negligence and abuse.”

Ferrer laughed bitterly.

“Why the hell would I do that? There’s no law that forces me to.”

“Because if you don’t,” Cristóbal said, lowering his voice to a lethal whisper,
“I will make sure every landowner in Michoacán, Guanajuato, and Jalisco learns exactly what kind of man you are. Your reputation will be destroyed—and without reputation, you have no business.”

Ferrer paled slightly.

“And,” Cristóbal added softly,
“let’s just say I have friends in Mexico City who would be very interested in your ‘excesses’ during slave transport. The viceroy has been seeking reasons to tighten regulations. You would be the perfect example.”

Silence swallowed the courtyard.

Finally, Ferrer exhaled.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But this is extortion.”

“No,” Cristóbal replied.
“This is justice—something you clearly don’t understand.”

“Santiago! Bring paper, ink, and a quill. Señor Ferrer has a document to write.”