When a white sedan pulled up alongside her Tesla Cybertruck on a roadside in Culiacán, Sinaloa, social media influencer Nicole Pardo—known to her followers as LaNicholette—did not flee. Instead, she paused with her iPhone in hand. Her reaction, or lack thereof, immediately raised the recurring question surrounding digital creators: is what we are witnessing real or staged?
The footage recorded by her vehicle in January of this year offers little clarity. Millions have since viewed the silent clip, which shows the 20-year-old feebly pressing her hands against the passenger door to prevent it from opening. She was no match for the two men who exited the sedan. One man wore an oversized red shirt to obscure his face while carrying an automatic weapon; the other wore a black t-shirt with his face fully visible. By the end of the 41-second video, Pardo had been forced into the back of the vehicle, which then sped away.
Pardo’s abduction was designed for the algorithm, going viral within hours. For several days, her whereabouts remained unknown. Formerly known to her 211,000 followers as La Nicholette, many feared she had become the latest victim in a wave of influencer killings sweeping Sinaloa—a region currently gripped by an internal conflict between the Chapitos and Mayiza factions of the local criminal organization.
Despite her survival, many questions regarding the authenticity of her situation remain. The influencer community, whether genuinely tied to the drug trade or merely adopting its aesthetic, remains central to the confusion regarding their true roles, sources of income, and actual interests.
The Sinaloa Influencer Target List
Approximately one year before Pardo’s kidnapping, a small aircraft flew low over Culiacán, dropping leaflets across the city. These pamphlets featured 25 black-and-white portraits of local influencers, some of whom were marked with the word “ELIMINADO” [eliminated]. One notable name on the list was the Grammy-winning Mexican musician Peso Pluma.
“Residents: These people are not innocent,” the pamphlet warned. “We ask you to stay away from these YouTubers and stop supporting their content, as they finance the Sapitos. Stop abusing the townspeople!”
Local reports linked these leaflets to the Mayiza faction of the Sinaloa Cartel, which is engaged in a violent struggle with the Chapitos. The conflict escalated in 2024 following a betrayal by a high-ranking member of the Chapitos, leading to the use of the term “little toads” (narco-slang for informants) in the pamphlets.
By the time LaNicholette was abducted, at least nine influencers from that list had been killed. Among the deceased were comedy creator Leobardo Aispuro Soto, known as “El Gordo Peruci,” and Gail Castro (known as Gail Toys). Castro, the brother of prominent social media figure Markitos Toys, was shot dead in an Ensenada restaurant in April 2025 following months of death threats against his family.
Markitos Toys—born Marcos Eduardo Castro Cárdenas—commands a massive following of nearly five million on YouTube. His content often features luxury cars and high-end lifestyle displays. Following the death of his brother and the arson of two of his restaurants, he relocated from Sinaloa.
Like many in his profession, Markitos Toys maintains strict control over his public image, rarely granting interviews and preferring to communicate via his own social channels. When questioned about alleged connections to Sinaloa Cartel figures like Néstor Isidro Pérez Salas (alias “El Nini”), he has maintained that “it is not a crime to have friendships” and that his associates’ business is separate from his own, while denying any direct involvement with organized crime.
The case of social media personalities—whether they are criminals, adjacent to crime, or simply aspirational—highlights a significant evidentiary gap. Many drape themselves in narco-culture iconography, fueling persistent speculation about the actual relationship between digital influencers and organized crime.
LaNicholette’s Response Clarifies Little
While Pardo survived, the specifics of her ordeal remain murky. During her disappearance, a video surfaced that differed sharply from her usual content of posing and lip-syncing to narcocorridos—ballads celebrating traffickers. She had even commissioned a song from the popular band Grupo Arriesgado titled “La Muchacha Del Salado, La Nicholette,” which has garnered 28 million views.
In the video released during her disappearance, Pardo appeared in a dark tracksuit with her hair tied back. Reading from a script with a somber, professional tone, she claimed she had been working for the Mayiza faction, assisting with the movement of drugs, weapons, and money, and paying off state police.
On the same day that video circulated, Pardo was reportedly “rescued” by security forces. When asked about her recovery, then-Sinaloa Governor Rubén Rocha Moya—who is currently facing scrutiny regarding his administration’s ties to the Chapitos—offered vague answers. While confirming she was safe, he admitted he did not know if she had been released, rescued, or part of a negotiated handover, noting that the investigation was ongoing.
Weeks later, Pardo provided a different account in a two-hour statement on the platform Kick. She claimed she had built a legitimate business selling apparel inspired by narco aesthetics, earning approximately $400,000 over two years. She asserted that her abductors, members of the Chapitos, forced her to read the script from the previous video and eventually released her because the kidnapping had generated so much media attention.
“You all created this entire movie that I was a narco hitwoman,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything. I’m just a regular girl.”