A mute girl finds herself entwined with a powerful mafia billionaire who becomes dangerously obsessed with her.
Despite her silence, his intense feelings compel him to pursue her relentlessly, ultimately forcing her into a marriage she never desire...
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Lucien’s private office above La Serpiente Dorada was a sanctum of steel and silence, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Mexico City’s glittering sprawl.
The bass thrum of the bar below vibrated through the walls—a mix of cumbia rhythms and the clink of crystal glasses.
His desk, a slab of obsidian, held stacks of ledgers and a tablet streaming CCTV feeds from brothels in Monterrey, Cancún, and Guadalajara. Names, ages, and photos of girls—12 to 19, sourced from Honduras, Guatemala, Venezuela—scrolled alongside profit margins.
A half-empty glass of Don Julio 1942 sat beside a gold-plated pen, its nib crusted with dried ink.
He leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled, his tailored navy suit immaculate, hair swept back to expose the sharp angles of his face.
Gold-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned a report from the bar manager—six new dancers hired last week, all undocumented, all indentured to his brothel contracts.
The manager, a wiry man named Ernesto, stood stiffly by the door, flanked by two guards whose eyes never left the floor.
“Double their quotas,” Lucien said, tossing the document aside. “If they faint, hose them down.”
Ernesto nodded. “Sí, jefe.”
A knock interrupted. One of the bartenders entered, trembling. “Señor Thorne, los Cabrera brothers are here. They insist on a meeting.”
Lucien glanced at the security feed. Two men in silk shirts and crocodile loafers loitered near the VIP booth, their Rolexes glinting. Politicians’ sons. Amateur cartel.
“Send them up.”
---
The bar was a den of velvet and vice, its air thick with cigar smoke and the tang of spilled tequila.
Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light over the dance floor, where women in sequined bodysuits swayed to a narcocorrido.
Lucien descended the spiral staircase, his guards clearing a path. The Cabrera brothers rose, their grins too wide, hands outstretched.
“¡Don Lucien!” the older one crooned. “Your new club is magnifico.”
Lucien ignored their hands, sliding into the booth. A waitress appeared—late teens, her uniform too tight, her smile too practiced.
She set down a bottle of Clase Azul and three glasses. Lucien noted the tremor in her fingers, the bruise peeking beneath her sleeve.
“To partnerships,” the younger Cabrera said, raising his drink.
Lucien didn’t touch his glass. “You want my routes through Sonora. The price is twenty percent upfront. Non-negotiable.”
The brothers exchanged glances. “Pero, the police—”
“Are my problem. Your problem is paying.”
A commotion erupted near the stage. A drunk in a rumpled Armani suit had a dancer pinned against the wall, his hand groping her thigh.
She struggled, her feathered headdress askew, sequined leotard ripped at the shoulder. “Déjame!” she hissed. (Let me go!)
Lucien’s gaze flicked to Alejandro, who lunged forward, hauling the man off her.
The dancer stumbled, her mascara smudged, chest heaving.
“You pendejo!” the drunk slurred, swinging wildly. “I paid for VIP! I own her!”
Lucien rose, buttoning his suit jacket. The bar fell silent, the music cutting abruptly.
He approached, his steps measured, until he loomed over the man.
“Name,” he said, calm as a blade unsheathed.
“F-Fernando Ruiz! My father is—”
Lucien backhanded him. The man crumpled, blood trickling from his lip.
The dancer stared, her fear melting into awe. She was young—20 at most—with chestnut curls and a rose tattoo snaking up her neck. “Señor, he… he wouldn’t stop misbehaving...,” she whispered.
Lucien tilted her chin up. “You work here. You only follow the protocols as well as the customers.”
Fernando spat blood. “This is a fucking bar! They’re all whores!”
Lucien nodded to Alejandro. Two punches—crack of bone, splatter of teeth. Fernando writhed, sobbing.
“Rules,” Lucien said, wiping his hands with a monogrammed handkerchief. “No forcing the dancers, its not a brothel.” He turned to the manager. “Revoke his membership. Send his father the dental bill.”
The dancer touched his arm. “Gracias, señor. I’m Marisol.”
He glanced at her hand until she withdrew it. “Get back to work.”
---
The Cabrera brothers were gone when he returned to the booth. Smart men.
His guards disposed of Fernando while the music swelled again, the dancers resuming their mechanical smiles.
Lucien sipped his tequila, the burn familiar, bitter.
Marisol watched him from the stage, her gaze a mix of terror and infatuation. He didn’t notice.
His phone buzzed—a security alert. Sorina’s face filled the screen, her hollow eyes staring blankly at the ground as she scrubbed the kitchen floor.
He traced her image with his thumb. His ghost. His ruin.
“Another bottle,” he ordered, drowning the night in amber.
