Diego Boneta has made a name for himself over the years as an actor. Whether you first fell in love with him on Rebelde or could not get enough of his performance as Luis Miguel in Netflix's biographical series, he has definitely become one to watch. And now he's starting to take another step in his career as he releases his first debut novel which will absolutely grab you from the first page. It makes sense, too, that it's also going to be turned into a TV series. But the most exhilarating part is how it's going to be released in English and Spanish at the same time. It's truly the best of both worlds and you're definitely going to want to pick this up!
Cosmopolitan has an exclusive look at The Undoing of Alejandro Velasco by Diego Boneta, which is set to be released on May 1, 2025. The novel follows Julian, a tennis player who, after the death of his best friend, starts to uncover some secrets of the Velasco family that they definitely don't want coming out. With danger and even love lurking around in his time with them, Julian will have to use his skills off the court to hopefully score a point in his favor as he tries to survive unscathed. Here's some more info from our friends at Crossing:
After Alejandro Velasco is found dead, a handsome stranger visits the family. But when this newcomer’s secrets collide with those of Alejandro’s sister, sparks fly―and blood is shed.
A handsome young man named Julian Villareal arrives at the opulent Velasco estate to pay his respects after the unexpected death of Alejandro Velasco, his close friend and tennis rival. But he soon becomes entwined in the Velasco family’s glamourous lifestyle―and their daughter Sofia’s mysterious allure. Mercurial and quick-witted, Sofia seems determined to give Julian a run for his money. And he’s prepared to play along―both on and off the tennis courts.
As the tension between Julian and Sofia sizzles, Julian hides a much darker secret: Alejandro’s death was no accident. And the more Julian learns about the inner workings of the Velasco family, the greater the danger he uncovers. With power and status come opponents bent on toppling the empire―by blackmail, revenge, or even murder. Julian’s quest for answers will only lure him deeper into this den of vipers, but teasing out Sofia’s own intentions may be the steamiest―and deadliest―game of all.
Ready to see who wins this wild match? Check out an exclusive excerpt below, including a peek of the audiobook as well! Just make sure to pre-order The Undoing of Alejandro Velasco before diving in!
An Excerpt From The Undoing of Alejandro Velasco
By Diego Boneta
Narrated by Diego Boneta
Chapter One
June
No one would have recognized the young man who emerged from a black car at the gated entrance to the Velasco estate. Even if they’d been expecting him.
It was not yet evening; the waning sun cast the home in an elegant dance of shadows and light, making it seem larger and more mysterious than the photos he’d studied. He made sure to keep the car waiting by the intercom, for appearance’s sake. The man was handsome; his dark hair had recently been cut to fall just so across his brow. His carefully polished shoes gleamed against the cobblestone. He adjusted his suit jacket, set his bag down by his feet, and then buzzed, taking a step back to make sure he stood in full view of the camera.
“Sí, diga,” a woman’s voice said.
“Mi nombre es Julián Villareal,” he said. There was a pause, and the young man knew it was in his best interest not to let it stretch out too long. “Era amigo de Alejandro.”
There was a click as the woman took herself off the mic, and a few moments later the gate started whirring open as she said, “Pase, por favor.”
This Villareal was a man of impeccable taste. Had been so even when he and Alejandro first met. Still, the man shifted his shoulders, adjusting to the fit of his suit in a brief pang of uncertainty, before waving the driver off. Then he picked up his bag and walked the long driveway to the hacienda-style house. He reached the stone steps, admiring what he could see of the property. Lush palms, fronds of native plants, and little potted citrus trees tastefully surrounded the white stucco walls and adorned an arched passage into what looked like a courtyard. He could hear the whisper of a fountain within, smell the soft scent of the blue and white plumbago flowers. San Miguel de Allende’s rolling hills could have been a painting in the background, except for the moving shadows of clouds.
This was paradise. Almost. He felt something dark inside him begin to flutter. He’d been expecting rage, and loss, but not this sensation of . . . desire.
The door opened before he made it to the doorbell; a woman in her fifties or so peered out at him, wearing a mustard-yellow apron over her clothes. The maid, then. “El señor Alejandro . . . no se encuentra,” she said, not moving out of the way of the entrance.
It was interesting phrasing, implying Alejandro simply wasn’t there. Then again, she wasn’t the only one versed in coded language. He gave a little nod and clarified that he was here to speak to Alejandro’s mother. “De hecho, quería hablar con la señora Velasco.”
The woman considered him for a moment, then stepped aside and ushered the young man in, asking him to wait a moment while she fetched the lady of the house. He watched the maid retreat quietly down a hall to the right, and soon he heard the soft patter of her sensible footwear on a staircase somewhere.
From the arched hallway, he could see the large courtyard straight ahead through some glass doors. A mosaic-tiled fountain stood in the middle, lit up against the quickly darkening sky. He imagined the parties hosted in that courtyard, dance partners twirling, laughter tripping off the walls and blending with the splash of the water. Alejandro as a charming sixteen-year-old, mingling with his parents’ friends, sipping from a stolen glass of his father’s port.
A weight threatened to crush his chest, then—a feeling like rage—and he turned away to examine the rest of the house. Just as he did, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and folded them in front of him to make himself approachable. Then he saw Maria Velasco turning the corner from some unseen room. He knew it was her immediately—Alejandro had shared many photos. An attractive, severe-looking woman in her late fifties, she was dressed in an olive-green pantsuit, as if she’d been conducting business before he arrived. The resemblance to Alejandro was clear as day.
“Julián Villareal? I recognize the name. You were Alejandro’s friend,” she said in English, the hint of a question in her voice.
“Yes, from grad school at UCLA. We played tennis together.” It felt strange to talk about this in the past tense. It had been true just a few weeks ago. “He was a year ahead of me. I took a leave for the summer because . . . well, I’m sure you understand. Ale was a good friend.”
Her hand went to the pendant on her silver necklace, a look passing over her eyes that made him wonder if he had overstepped a boundary already or made some other crucial mistake. He held his breath, waiting for her expression to turn hostile. To berate him for showing up with no warning, a stranger intruding on a grieving family.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I should know his friends. I used to, even those from boarding school. But in the six years since he went to the States . . . ,” she said, trailing off. When a moment passed and she still seemed lost in thought, he decided distraction was the best course of action.
He gestured to the duffel bag. “I actually have some of his things with me. I wanted to make sure they got to you.”
That softened her up a bit. “Please, come in. Can we get you anything to drink? Coffee? Beer?” she offered with a smile.
It was exactly Alejandro’s smile.
#
Twenty minutes later, they were both sipping carajillos in the living room as he regaled her with stories from school. He told her about the time Alejandro had been feeling restless and convinced a group of them to drive in the middle of the night to Ensenada in Baja. But no one had thought to book a hotel, and they’d had to sleep on the beach.
“My son? On the beach?” Mrs. Velasco laughed. “When he was little, he hated sand, hated being dirty. He would take a few showers a day. The only eight-year-old who didn’t have to be convinced to bathe.”
“To be honest, he spent most of the time in the water,” he said. “He kept running in. I didn’t know why until you said that. I thought he was just trying to lure the girls to join him.”
“Both things could be true,” Mrs. Velasco said, and they both laughed.
“It’s good,” he said, swirling the drink in his hand. Made of espresso and Licor 43, the dark brown liquid shimmered in the light, a perfect treat after his day of travels. “To talk about him with someone else. I can’t imagine how you are coping.”
Mrs. Velasco fingered the leather strap of the watch he had given her—Alejandro’s watch—pain flashing in her eyes. She’d barely looked through the duffel bag, which held some books Alejandro had lent him, a pair of nice sunglasses, and Ale’s computer, among a few other things he’d grabbed. She was quiet for a moment, then cleared her throat. “Yes, well, we’ve tried to keep busy. Gabriel, especially, has been occupying himself with work. A merger that was already underway before Alejandro’s . . .” She frowned and shook her head, and he got the sense that she was fighting off some intrusive thought, some memory.
She wasn’t the only one haunted by memories.
“It’s fortunate, really,” she said finally, still looking into her glass. “The way life offers these little distractions. Otherwise, I’m not sure how we’d be able to go on.” Now she smiled sadly, and he tried to return it but found himself only able to nod, his fingers clenched around the armrest.
They fell silent, and he took a moment to look around the room. The framed tapestry hanging on the wall—handmade Oaxacan was his guess; the golden Don Quixote statuette in the corner, expensive, not tacky. He could hear the tinkle of the fountain in the courtyard, a pleasant susurrus.
“I thought we weren’t entertaining guests just yet,” a gruff voice said from behind them.
He noticed Maria’s face get serious again, and he turned over his shoulder to look. He recognized Gabriel Velasco immediately and rose to his feet. “Señor Velasco, un gusto finalmente conocerlo—”
“English in the house,” Maria Velasco said curtly. “Please. And you can call us Maria and Gabriel.”
Gabriel held the young man’s gaze but smiled.
He recognized the smile—not as Alejandro’s, but as the smile of someone practiced in charming a path through the world for himself. He knew exactly what the power of a smile could do.
“My wife’s rule,” Gabriel conceded with a nod. “As much as I like to show off my Spanish, it’s a custom we implemented so the kids would learn both languages perfectly. We’ve held onto it over the years. Not fanatically, of course, but we do try to stick to it.” It was a reminder that he was an American transplant. He’d come to Mexico in his early twenties and had never left. His style and mannerisms felt right in line with the upper crust of Mexican society. Even his Spanish was virtually accentless. He was almost the opposite of Alejandro and Julián, who loved Mexico but had settled into LA with their perfect English, something families like the Velascos viewed as crucial. “But I thought we said no to guests, cariño. Or are you feeling better?”
“It’s my mistake,” the young man said, reaching out his hand. “I showed up unexpectedly. Just to pay my respects and deliver some of Alejandro’s belongings.” Still, Gabriel’s eyes hadn’t moved away from his. He tried not to let his smile falter. His hand was still out between them, an awkward reminder that it had gone unshaken. Finally, he dropped his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sometimes, I . . .” He took a deep breath. “I feel like he’s still here.”
He tried to read Gabriel’s reaction, to see if his tone had landed in the way he’d intended, but the man was stone-faced. The visitor wasn’t terribly surprised, considering some of Alejandro’s stories. Considering all of them, actually.
This was the world Alejandro had grown up in. He was finally here, seeing it for himself. And he felt himself divided, half wanting to see it all, to know every detail, and half wanting to light a match and burn it down. He was on edge and tried not to let it show.
“Why are you here?” Gabriel said. The words were harsher than his tone, which was friendly, a hint of a smile appearing now, breaking through the more-salt-than-pepper five-o’clock shadow.
He gave a shrug, acting embarrassed, knowing he needed to soften Gabriel’s impression of him. “The truth is, Ale always talked about San Miguel. I was looking for a change from Los Angeles—and I’m on summer break now. All I could hear was Ale’s voice telling me about the hills here, the club, the people, the courts. I wanted to pay my respects. Perhaps I may even make myself of use to you in some small way as I search for what comes next for me.”
He let his voice trail off, pensive, smiling at Gabriel, looking for a reaction to cross the man’s face. But he was inscrutable. A challenge, then.
He felt the part of him that loved to be pushed coming to life. The competitor. Perhaps it was time to play his power card. “You know,” he said slowly, “I was the one who—” For a moment, the image of Alejandro’s body flooded his mind, made him stutter. “I was the one who found him,” he said simply. He had wanted to play the part of someone in shock and pain—the problem was, it was true. The shock had been real—a gut punch.
The Velascos stiffened visibly, and he once again worried that he’d misstepped. Was it too early to have shown that card? Shit.
Maria closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead, as if suddenly experiencing a migraine.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I find myself needing to talk about it when it’s no longer appropriate. I can go.” He started to button his suit jacket, but Maria’s eyes shot open.
“No, stay. It’s . . . fine.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. Her husband’s body language was a lot less inviting. He leaned over to grab the carajillo that Maria had set on the coffee table, and the visitor could see the veins in Gabriel’s hand, the taut tendons as he gripped the glass. “Please sit, Julián,” Maria said. “You were saying that it was Ale’s talking about San Miguel that made you want to come here?”
He was thankful for Maria’s easing the tension, although Gabriel didn’t seem too relaxed. He was still hovering a couple of feet away from the young man, who felt compelled to stay standing, despite Maria’s request.
“Yes, well, it was actually the tennis club he spoke about most often,” he said, sipping his drink. “At UCLA, Alejandro and I hit the courts almost every day, but he was always saying the facilities—and the views—just didn’t compare to the club back here in San Miguel. I thought I might check it out while I’m visiting the city.”
He made eye contact with Maria and was happy to see her expression warming.
“So you play tennis too,” she said. “How wonderful. I remember more now; he told us about you. A business school friend and a tennis rival. That must mean you’re quite good, to keep up with our Ale.”
Before he could respond to the compliment, Gabriel’s hand clapped onto his shoulder.
“A word of advice. People in this town are very private about their personal affairs. If you want to make friends here, you would do well to remember that.” Gabriel gave his shoulder a squeeze, then came around to sit next to his wife, taking a long drink from the carajillo he’d filched from her. “We Velascos are no different. More private than most, in fact.” Maybe talking about Alejandro had been a misstep.
“Your coming here to pay your respects is very kind,” Gabriel continued, “but it has been important to us to have our time to grieve Alejandro’s accident. Death is a private matter, wouldn’t you agree?”
Something had changed in his tone, even if he was being friendly. There was a hint of a growl to his words, like a beast warning its prey. An accident. That was a strange way to describe the cause of Alejandro’s death.
It had been ruled a suicide, but he had anticipated that the family might be hiding details about his death from others. Families like the Velascos liked to sweep shameful things under the rug, and, suicide or not, Alejandro’s death was shameful. He knew, too, that his being the one to have discovered their son’s body made him a liability to them, gave him leverage in their world, especially if they weren’t being forthcoming about the details. He was going to need all the leverage he could get.
Maria Velasco seemed to hear Gabriel’s tone, too, because she put her hand on her husband’s knee and cleared her throat. “Amor, can I talk to you in private for a moment?”
Gabriel shot her a look, then studied the visitor, as if he were trying to suss out secret communication between the two of them. “Of course.” They both stood.
“Please, Julián, make yourself at home,” Maria said. “We’ll be back in a moment.”
They smiled politely and left the living room, disappearing through another door at the end of the arched hallway.
He sat quietly for a moment, waiting to see if their voices would carry down the hall. But they were speaking softly, and whatever it was they were going to argue about would remain a secret. Then he noticed a picture frame on a bookshelf. Listening again to make sure they were not yet returning, he got up and took a closer look.
He recognized the UCLA tennis courts in the picture. Ale was in midserve, a modest crowd in the stands behind him, out of focus. He scanned his memory to see if he could recognize what tournament this picture was taken at, whether he’d been there too. He couldn’t be spotted in the crowd, could he?
Fighting the urge to place the picture face down, he continued to explore, studying the books on the shelves and the other photos around the room. The Velasco family at a Caribbean beach, back when Alejandro and Sofia were teenagers. The four of them on matching lounge chairs, the turquoise water shimmering in the background. They wore the easy, carefree smiles of all wealthy, beautiful people on vacation. Then again, he knew how appearances could deceive.
The door down the hall creaked open, and he turned to look, expecting them to return. They didn’t appear, though. It seemed like they’d just failed to properly shut the door—a breeze moving through the many open-air courtyards must have blown it open—and now he could hear their voices faintly. It was definitely an argument, though hushed. Knowing his window of opportunity was narrow, he stepped into the hall, his new shoes clicking ever so quietly on the Spanish tile floor. There were more pictures on the wall; he could pretend to be looking at these, should he need to.
Snippets came to him. “Says he’s Ale’s friend, but what the hell do we know about him?”
Gabriel was saying, “I’m not going to trust one of his friends just because he’s in my living room!”
Then Maria’s voice, much softer, soothing. He cautioned a step closer to the open door. “Came all this way . . . The only one . . .” He took another step, and another. “We may as well keep him close,” Maria was saying. “Keep an eye on him. He obviously knows what happened.”
There was a pregnant pause, and he froze, about to backtrack. Gabriel gave a resigned sigh.
“He might not even stick around that long,” Maria said.
He smiled to himself, slipping seamlessly back into the living room where they’d left him. It had been a risk to bring up having found Ale’s body so soon after meeting the Velascos, but maybe it would pay off after all. He hunched over to study a shelf full of various editions of The Art of War by Sun Tzu. There were at least thirty copies of the book in a handful of languages.
“Have you ever read it?” Gabriel asked, entering the living room.
He turned around, happy to see a slight smile on the man’s face. It immediately called to mind Alejandro’s teasing grin. Genuine, now. Not like before. He held one of the editions in his hands, knowing the book was something Ale’s father loved to talk about. “Only if you count all the times Alejandro quoted it to me,” he said.
This evoked a hearty chuckle from Gabriel, and a slight scoff from Maria, who had entered behind him. She moved back to the couch, clinking the rest of the ice in her glass. “At least I know he was listening sometimes,” he added, then clapped his guest on the back and guided him gently away from the shelf. “Tell me, Julián, where are you staying?”
“I came straight here from the airport,” he said, though this wasn’t strictly true. “If you have a recommendation for a hotel, I’d be happy to take it. One with a good breakfast, preferably. LA has the best Mexican food in the US, but I still haven’t found anywhere that makes chilaquiles as tasty as the ones here.” He gave a little chuckle; then, deciding to reveal the information sooner than he’d originally planned, he added, “I’m considering staying in San Miguel long term after graduation next year. Maybe the right breakfast can convince me.”
“You’ll forgive me for being a little short before, but of course you will stay with us,” Gabriel said, taking a seat beside his wife, his hand on her knee. “Amalia, who runs our kitchen, makes the best chilaquiles in town. We’d be honored if you stayed with us until you decide to leave.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “Or find more permanent accommodations, of course.”
“That’s very nice of you, but I couldn’t impose.”
“Not an imposition. My wife reminded me of my manners, and she’s right.” He patted her knee again for emphasis.
The visitor started protesting again, but then Amalia, the woman who’d answered the door, entered the room, as if sensing she’d be needed. Gabriel asked for a beer for himself and offered him one as well, plus dinner if he was hungry. He politely declined, and then Gabriel asked Amalia to set up the guest room.
“You really don’t have to do that. I hear the boutique hotels—”
“For my son’s best friend?” Gabriel scoffed, interrupting. “Of course I do.”
Had he described himself as that? He had equal urges to deny the comment and to sit with it for a moment. Instead, he just lowered his head, as if embarrassed.
“My husband has made up his mind,” Maria said with a smile. “Once that happens, no one in the world can change it.” Her words had a subtle edge, like fine-cut glass.
“Except for you, mi amor,” Gabriel said, looking at his wife with a cheeky grin.
Again, he picked up on an undertone. It could have been an innocent, flirtatious comment, delivered awkwardly after forty years of marriage. Or it could have been something else.
“All right,” he said, trying to hide his pleasure. He had hoped this would happen eventually, but he had expected the invitation to come after weeks of hanging around, putting in legwork, slowly maneuvering his way into the family’s good graces. This was much easier . . . though he knew better than to be lulled into complacency by things that came easy. “If you insist, then I’d be honored to stay here with you.”
The conversation turned lighter after that, questions about Julián’s family, his upbringing, his intentions for his time in San Miguel. He had anticipated this, of course, had imagined having this conversation many times before arriving. Still, it was a thrill to deliver his answers, practiced though they may have been.
“To tell you the truth, I hadn’t planned very far ahead,” he said vaguely. “I knew I wanted to meet you, pay my respects, and see the city a little.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m tempted to buy property as I have some money put away. I’ve arranged for a car I’ll be picking up tomorrow, since I prefer not having to rely on taxis, or the kindness of others.” He flashed them a smile. “Beyond that, I was hoping to have a tequila or two in Alejandro’s honor, perhaps at the club where he spent so much time. If you would have me, of course. Play a little on the clay he loved.” Was he laying it on a bit thick? He noticed Maria turning away, trying to surreptitiously wipe away a tear. Strangely, it made him angry. She had a right to grieve, of course. The loss of a child was surely a grief like no other. But as he looked around the house, it seemed the Velascos had not lost much at all. Their futures were untouched. Changed, sure. But not lost, like his was.
As soon as he’d finished that thought, he felt guilt swirling in his stomach, especially when he looked at Maria. He had no idea what it felt like to lose a child, and he was embarrassed he had dismissed her pain, even if just in his head. He was glad they weren’t privy to his thoughts. He would have to be careful not to let any sort of resentment show during his time here.
“Good,” Gabriel said. “San Miguel de Allende is a great place for those who belong.” Another pause as he assessed his visitor once again. “It seems like you will fit right in, Julián.” He pronounced Julián’s name slowly, with intention.
#
Later that night, brushing his teeth in the guest bathroom across the hall from his temporary sleeping arrangements, he thought about that line, and how easily Gabriel had delivered it. It seems like you will fit right in, Julián. Gabriel was a man used to speaking in layers, and he would have to remember that, maneuver carefully.
As he was closing the door to his room, he thought he heard an intake of breath. He peeked through the sliver between the door and its frame, expecting to see Gabriel there, or maybe Maria, rubbing the pendant on her silver necklace. Perhaps the matronly maid would be making the rounds one last time before she allowed herself to rest.
Instead, he saw a vaguely familiar young woman’s face staring back at him.
After a moment, he was able to square the sight of her with the picture from downstairs, and all the times he’d seen her face pop up on Alejandro’s phone and on social media. Sofia.
She was visible in the light shining through the crack in the door only for a second, before passing into the shadows, but the moment felt longer than that. It felt like their eyes had locked long enough for her to haunt his dreams, long enough for her to have glimpsed some deep truth about him that he’d rather keep secret.
ADAPTED FROM The Undoing of Alejandro Velasco BY DIEGO BONETA, PUBLISHED BY CROSSING, AN IMPRINT OF AMAZON PUBLISHING. COPYRIGHT © 2025 DIEGO BONETA
The Undoing of Alejandro Velasco, by Diego Boneta will be released on May 1, 2025. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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