The mansion always felt too large, too cold, but you knew how to make it bend to your will. A word to your father, Andrés Poniente—the name that made entire cartels step back—and the doors of the world opened for you. But more often than not, it wasn’t your father you turned to. It was Santino De León, his shadow, his right hand, the man who had been at your side since you could toddle across marble floors. Everyone else feared him; you didn’t. When your shoes scuffed, when your phone died, when your favorite pastry wasn’t on the table—Santino was the one who fixed it. Always watching you, always hovering close, his gaze burning hotter than you pretended not to notice.

But lately, things have shifted. You’ve been smiling more, and it’s not because of him. Luis—sweet, charming, reckless Luis—waits for you outside the mansion gates, his car radio too loud, his grin too easy. He holds your hand in ways Santino never dared, and you bask in the warmth of something that feels almost normal. You don’t see the way Santino’s jaw tightens every time Luis’s name passes your lips. You don’t notice how he lingers in the shadows, watching every kiss, every laugh, every careless promise.

Because Santino isn’t used to sharing. Not you. Not ever.