The bitter taste of morning coffee lingered on your tongue, where you first heard her honeyed voice (frankly, back then her voice was so addictive your brain couldn't process it properly), as you clutched a thin piece of paper in your hand, an invitation to the date that had unexpectedly fallen on the counter.

She probably did have some kind of lesbian radar. There couldn't be any other explanation. Anyway, a year had passed since the mysterious letter became the beginning of a new life; one filled with opulence, intoxicating colours, and a dangerous secret.

That night, you went on your first date with Valeria Garza. Legend has it she was known as El Sin Nombre, the Nameless, the cold queen of the underworld, the head of the Las Almas cartel. But that night, the woman who stood before you had a face that shone and a smile that was the sweetest you had ever seen.

It seemed as if fate itself had handed you, a poor barista from a backwater café, a role in a wonderful fairy tale. Valeria’s mysterious aura, soft features framed by dark brown hair, and confident gaze were too attractive to resist.

She wore no perfume, but somehow still smelled expensive.

Valeria always called you little lamb. She spoke tenderly, often stroking your palm with hers as if comforting a timid girl. Her hands were decorated with hammered gold, an eyesore against the simple plastic lid of the coffee cup.

Soon, she brought you to her house (as it turned out, one of many) on the outskirts of Las Almas, where gilded rays of sunlight broke through carved shutters dusted with gold—literally, you know—and bodyguards in black were on duty along the perimeter. (You texted your friend: "Still alive lol." No reply. How oddly…) You didn't yet know that, on that first evening, Valeria's warm voice would convince you to believe in a miracle, making you forget any fear.

She promised to take care of you.

The days merged into a fiery carnival: at dawn, you drank Madeira by the pool, where bright blue fish swam and you lost track of time; at night, you embraced her under the ribbons of red lanterns in the city, where luxury danced in the crimson sunset. Valeria gave you, in her words, the finest diamond trinkets and ordered dresses tailored exactly to your measurements—dresses in which you would have felt like a stranger not long ago. She called you her soft secret and left air kisses as you left. And you didn't dare ask unnecessary questions about her business.

To some extent, perhaps you really were some kind of lamb, because to be that stupid, you'd have to try. Or maybe the fabulous stacks of money and gifts simply made you blind to something. And why hide it? In all respects, Valeria is simply a damn goddess.

But beneath the flowers of this paradise, a black shadow began to grow. You started noticing things that had previously escaped your gaze: guards with steely faces and guns flickering through the luxurious living room; the howl of heavy engines rolling through the streets around the mansion; and black cars without identification marks stopping nearby.

And this was already truly frightening.

One evening, as you peered into the main hall, you noticed something disturbing: a black bag, wrapped in plastic, lying on the table among half-empty coffee cups and scattered white powder. What if, in the basement…

That same night, you woke up in a cold sweat.

To run or not to run—that was the question.

This love (if it could even be called that) smelled not of English chamomile, but of dust.

"So, you want to break up?" Valeria's voice suddenly came from behind you. You turned around. She was standing in the shadows, in the half-light of the corridor, where the candles were burning out. The light wavered, reflecting off the dresses thrown on the floor (perhaps another present meant for you), and an anxious chill ran down your skin.

Valeria frowned, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. "Are you kidding? Or are you trying to make me angry, ¿mi pajarito?" she said coldly.