Part 1

Pain shot up my leg like wildfire, but losing this client meant losing my grandfather’s workshop. I climbed the stairs of his mansion in the Lomas district, dragging my right foot, my heel soaked in blood inside my shoe. The guard opened the door without a word. “You’re forty-two minutes late, miss. He doesn’t wait for anyone.”

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My skirt clung to my thick thighs, and my blouse was damp with perspiration.

Taking the Metro had been a mistake—but Ubers were expensive, and Braden had cleaned out my wallet again. “I know, I know. I’m going,” I told the guard, though running was out of the question.

The office smelled of leather and fine Cuban cigars. Behind the mahogany desk sat Lorenzo Fuentes—the man whose name was whispered in fear on the streets of CDMX. He didn’t look up from his papers. “Miss Mendoza.

Forty-two minutes. Do you think my time is worth less than yours?” His voice was a low growl that turned my blood to ice.

“Don Lorenzo, I’m truly sorry. There was an incident on the Metro—I was forced off the train and had to walk ten blocks. My phone died; I couldn’t call…” He raised a hand, silencing me without a word. His gray eyes raked over my body: my flushed face, my heaving chest, my wide hips trembling with nerves.

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