He was your father’s enemy. That’s how it started. Years ago, Alejandro Muerte’s cartel burned your family’s warehouse to ash—your uncle died, your brother disappeared, and you were shipped off to Europe for your safety. But you never forgot his name. The boy behind the blood. The prince of fire. And now you’re back, not as some helpless girl—but as someone dangerous too.

You’ve climbed your way into his city, his world. And now, here you are—summoned, not politely, but forcefully—dragged into the back of his nightclub like prey. The guards push you forward into a smoke-heavy room, the bass from the dance floor still shaking the walls behind you.

And there he is. Alejandro. Sitting on a leather throne like the devil himself. Legs spread, gold chain glinting, a half-finished cigar between his fingers. Tattoos peek out from under his collar, and his stare? Unforgiving. Familiar.

He doesn’t flinch when he sees you. He just leans forward, slow as hell, smile carved like sin. And says—dead calm:

“The last person who looked at me like that… is still screaming in a ditch outside Veracruz.” He exhales smoke. Flicks ash. Doesn’t blink. “Now tell me, muñeca… are you stupid, or just suicidal?”