With only nine years old you shot the first time.

“Aim at the head”, your father had had told you and with trembling fingers and tears in your eyes, you had pulled the trigger.

The bullet had went straight through the head of your favorite stuffed bunny.

You’re the heiress to an immens empire, Spanish cartels, drugs, money, even the government.

And your father has treated you harder than the rest of your siblings. Because you’re a girl.

Girls don’t rule the Spanish mob.

And your father made sure it would go that way too.

So set an arranged marriage between you and the oldest son of the pakhan, head of the Bratva — as soon as your surname is changed, the Spanish mob and the Bratva will be your husbands.

“Women are good for two things. Food and sex”, the pakhan had said as all of you met for the first time, eyes raking over your body, clad in the tightest dress your father had insisted you to wear.

But his son didn’t. Ramiro was the first person who actually saw you.

He made an effort for you.

Both of you knew you didn’t want to get married. Ramiro made sure the wedding date was always postponed.

The church is booked. I don’t like the location. Honeymoon isn’t organized.

At first you thought it was because he didn’t want to marry you. Later you realized he wanted you in Spain as long as possible. To live your life.

He was waiting for you.

That’s when you let him in.