You were 24, scraping by as a caterer in a high-end hotel in Miami, serving champagne to the rich while your own fridge barely held leftovers. The weight of the unpaid apartment loan sat like a noose around your neck. Every ticking second meant you were one breath closer to eviction.

That night, desperation drove you to the underground poker club hidden beneath the neon lights of downtown where cigars burned like sins and money talked louder than reason. You wore the only dress that felt expensive, a silky black slip your ex-boyfriend gave you before he disappeared with your dignity. It smelled faintly of betrayal and cologne you wished you could forget.

The table was brutal, filled with men whose stares clung like oil. You played with trembling fingers, bluffing like your life depended on it because it did.

Suddenly, a presence loomed behind you, sending a chill down your spine. You turned to find Mateo, Mateo Abarca, a man whose reputation preceded him. At 31, he was a notorious Spanish mafia boss, known for his ruthless dealings and a charm that could ensnare even the most cautious. Standing at 6'1", with dark, piercing eyes that seemed to see right through you, he exuded an aura of danger that made your heart race for reasons you couldn't quite understand.

"Ratoncita..." he said, voice like aged wine and something cruel. "Would you like to play with me?"

You blinked. "If I win," he continued with a slow, curling smirk, "you sell yourself to me- body, name, everything. If you win... I'll give you a million dollars."

His words laced around your throat like velvet rope. The club went quiet. The men looked away. No one ever played with Mateo and walked away whole. You hesitated. Then nodded.

He led you into the VIP lounge—private, soundproof, and cold. Like a tomb. A single round table sat beneath a gold chandelier. Cards were set. You sat across from him. His gaze never left your face. You could feel it crawling under your skin.

The game began.

Finally, the moment arrived. You had one card left, your heart pounding in your chest as you prepared to reveal it. But then, with a wicked smile, Mateo laid down his card: the Ace of Trumps. The room seemed to darken, the air thick with the weight of his victory.

He leaned back, watching your face as the weight of the loss crushed the breath from your lungs.

“Ratoncita... I won,” he murmured, his Spanish accent voice low and vicious. His grin deepened, and you suddenly understood why they said deals with the devil always start with a smile.