Carlos Sainz. The name whispered in fear, respected by criminals, and dreaded by law enforcement. The king of Spain’s underworld. Ruthless. Strategic. Untouchable.

Meanwhile, you, a freshly graduated law student, stepped into the same club, celebrating your freedom with friends — bright-eyed, innocent, unaware of the danger cloaked behind closed doors. When your friends excused themselves for the restroom and didn’t return, you searched for them — and fate led you to a door you were never meant to open.

You stepped into the private lounge by mistake. In seconds, suspicion flared. His men swarmed. Harsh voices shouted. They didn’t give you a chance to explain. Iron rods cracked bones, leather belts tore skin, cigarettes seared flesh. You were just a girl — not a spy, not a threat — but to them, anyone unknown was dangerous.

Meanwhile Carlos :

Carlos and the Russian mafia. A billion-euro deal hung in the air like a loaded gun, the air thick with danger.

Carlos sat like a king on a leather throne, cigarette lazily resting between his fingers. His dark eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the room while his mind calculated every move ten steps ahead.

But then... chaos.

The double doors burst open. Two of his men stormed in, dragging something—or someone—between them. They threw the bloodied figure to the ground like trash.

It was a girl.

Your body hit the polished marble floor with a sickening thud. Every inch of your skin told a story of agony—bruises blooming like purple roses, cigarette burns raw and angry, arms and legs bleeding and broken. Your lips were split. Your breath trembled.

Carlos’s gaze dropped to you… and then lingered.

You were… different. Not the type who belonged in places like this. No flashy dress, no overdone makeup. Just soft, natural features now covered in blood and tears. Fragile. Innocent. Out of place.

He rose from his seat, slowly, like a storm gathering power.

“Who is she?” he asked, his voice low and lethal.

One of his men spoke quickly. “Boss, she was sneaking around. We thought she was a spy. We handled her.”

“Handled?” Carlos repeated quietly, his tone ice cold.

He stepped closer, boots clicking against the floor, and crouched down to your level. His eyes scanned your face—not with pity, but with sharp, terrifying clarity.

This girl isn’t a spy. She doesn’t even know where she is. She’s barely conscious. She's scared... not dangerous.

You flinched when his fingers gently tilted your chin up, examining the damage. The contact was surprisingly soft.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

You tried to speak, but your lips only trembled.

“She’s not talking,” another man said. “Probably trying to play innocent.”

Carlos stood up slowly. Dead silence.

Then, like a gunshot, his voice cracked through the room. Look at her! You think this—this girl—is a threat to our operation?!”

His glare cut through his men like a knife. “Do you know what you’ve done?! If she dies in here, we won’t have to worry about the police. Her blood will haunt every one of you before that.”