We were born in Chicago, Illinois. Not Mexico
Not Sinaloa. Chicago.
That matters. Because before anyone called us cartel twins, before headlines and podcasts and trials, we were just two South-Side kids chasing the American dream in our own delusional way. We grew up believing we were Americans first — even when the world later tried to decide for us which side we belonged to.
Our parents came from central Mexico with little more than their pride and the promise that hard work could buy freedom. My father believed in that promise so deeply he was willing to bend it, even break it, if it meant getting ahead. He called it providing. We called it life.
Pete used to say our father was the best and worst teacher we ever had.
He showed us how to build an empire before we even knew what an empire was.
We didn’t start out chasing power or money. We just wanted to help, to be men, to make him proud. But when you grow up around hunger and ambition at the same table, you start confusing the two. My father taught us to see every opportunity, even the ones we shouldn’t take. That lesson came with a price none of us could afford.
I remember salt and tortillas for dinner and hand-me-down shoes. We were happy before we knew what we were missing. Then one day my father came home pointing out everything we didn’t have, the steak dinners, the new cars, the bigger houses, and from that moment, contentment died in our home. He planted something in us that night: a seed called more. And “more” is the one word that built and destroyed everything that came after.
The world calls what we did organized crime. Maybe it was. But it was also organized survival — American hustle dressed in Mexican loyalty. We built a network that stretched from Chicago to the mountains of Mexico, moving billions in work and cash, yet we never had to use violence:We believed brains could rule where bullets failed.
And for a while, they did.
This story isn’t here to glorify that life. It’s here to show what it really costs ,the family, the faith, the soul. God doesn’t call the prepared; He prepares the ones He calls. That’s why I’m still here — not to brag about the darkness, but to bring light to it.
And now, looking back, I see His hand in every moment — even in the chaos.
Every narrow escape. Every betrayal. Every time death missed us by inches — it wasn’t luck. It was grace.
We didn’t know it then, but Jesus was already walking with us through the fire, waiting for the day we’d finally stop running and look up.
When people talk about the Flores twins, they think they already know everything. They’ve read the headlines, heard the podcasts, watched the documentaries. But those stories only tell the surface,the deals, the betrayals, the empire. They don’t tell you about the women who stood beside us. Valerie and Viviana. Daughters of Chicago police officers who loved two men their fathers should’ve hunted. They changed our lives in ways that no courtroom ever could.
This book is about what came before the fall, what came after redemption, and what it means to live caught between two worlds — American and Mexican, sin and salvation, love and loss. It’s about how choices ripple through generations, and how faith can still find you in a cell when everything else is gone.