Prologue

Guadalajara – Six Years Earlier

POV ALEJANDRA ZAVALA

I made the sign of the cross as soon as I finished praying the Lord’s Prayer.

May God protect me.

We were not treated like princesses in the place where I had been living for five years, as a prisoner, so when they arrived with soaps, shampoos and new clothes, I immediately began to pray.

It wasn’t that we didn’t bathe every day, but we did so with a hard bar of soap that smelled like coconut. That day, they gave us something that smelled like lavender. The dress I wore was white, immaculate, like a doll’s. My long, brown hair was left loose, but combed carefully. A pink bow was placed on my head.

They even put on lipstick and blush – no doubt to make me look healthier.

I hadn’t looked in the mirror for a long time, but that afternoon I was allowed to. I was placed in front of my own reflection for the first time in five years, barely recognizing the woman I saw.

I was only thirteen when I was taken from my home, handed over by my own brother so he could have a position in the Cartel, right after my parents died. I had my dreams ripped from me, I lived in fear and ended up there, expecting to be sold to someone before I even turned eighteen.

That's what happened to the girls I lived with. Some, when they arrived very young, and without the Latina appearance like mine, ended up being bought by families to pose as their daughters; as charity work, although I imagined they wouldn't be treated very well either.

Others became prostitutes in expensive places that could afford their price. Many were bought by perverts as sex slaves.

I didn't know what my fate would be.

I had the impression that they were keeping me for something. Me and about three other girls who were kept away from me, whose names I barely knew.

Well... I would finally find out.

They came to get me when it was already night outside. I didn’t have access to a window with a view, but there was a hole high up in the wall, with bars, through which the light came in. We were exposed to the sun every day, in groups, just as if we were prisoners, although we were not allowed to have contact. We were given vitamin pills, because the diet and lifestyle were not the best. Still, I would rather stay there for the rest of my days than be condemned to a much worse fate. Léa, the woman who took care of me, also made the sign of the cross on my forehead, and when I saw her worried expression, it was hard not to feel a chill run down my spine. She knew something I didn’t. And she didn’t seem at all happy about what was going to happen to me. I came across the other girls wearing identical clothes to mine. They were all Latina, with dark hair, dark eyes. They were all thin—more than would be healthy—but I was definitely the tallest. So much so that my dress was also the shortest, showing much more of my legs than I would have liked. My eyes met those of a very young girl, much younger than me, and I heard someone calling her Blanca. Whatever we were doing there, I was sure they would choose her over me. I could only see one side of her face, because she looked at me sideways, but she was beautiful. Porcelain face, upturned nose, full lips. She was small and delicate, with the bearing of a maiden. I was too thin. Too tall. Who would want me?

May God forgive me, because I didn't want fate to be cruel to that poor girl, but at that moment I asked for her to be chosen and not me.

"What is this deformed girl doing here?" one of the men growled, grabbing the arm of the little porcelain doll next to me. "Such a pretty face, all ruined..." The bastard threw the girl to the ground, and it was then that I could see a scar cutting a piece of her face.

It wasn't that big. It didn't diminish her beauty in the least, but it marked her face, perhaps forever.

"Can you believe she was the one who ruined herself like that? She cut her face on purpose. She was so cute, so pretty... She could get a big boss. Now she'll be cleaning toilets for the rest of her life." The man grabbed the girl's arm, and I saw a smile almost on her face as she was taken out of the room where we were placed.

Cleaning toilets was a much better fate, without a doubt, than becoming a slave to a “boss,” as the bastard mentioned.

Well... it was just me and two others left. It would be a game of chance.

We waited for long minutes until a man came in, surrounded by three others. He was wearing a very large, very heavy velvet coat over a black suit. He was smoking a cigar and had rings on almost every finger. He was blond, with eyebrows the same very light shade, and his cheekbones were so rosy that I could have sworn he had used more blush than I had.

“Is that all?” he asked in English, but with a strong accent. Russian, probably.

“Yes, sir. They are the Latinas, as you requested. All Mexicans.”

Why the hell did he only want Mexican girls? Was it a fetish?

The Russian just grunted, shrugged and approached us. In the line, in the order he decided to follow, I would be the last.

He touched each of their faces, looked at their teeth, felt them, as if they were merchandise. When he got to me, he stopped, looking me up and down. He took off his sunglasses and tilted his head to the side. He reached out to touch me, as he had done with the other girls, and I pushed him away. One of his henchmen came with his arm raised, probably ready to hit me, but the Russian pointed a finger, without taking his eyes off me, looking intrigued. “What’s your name, sweetie?” he asked in very forced, very badly spoken Spanish. I didn’t answer right away, but I saw the son of a bitch who had almost hit me reach for his holster. Maybe it would have been better to get shot and die than the scenario that was unfolding. I had somehow caught the man’s attention, even though it wasn’t my intention. “Your name, girl!” he repeated. “Alejandra,” I said through my teeth, wrinkling my nose in disgust. He must have been about fifty years old, he was about my height – five feet seven inches – but he had broad shoulders. His eyes were a deep black, which contrasted with the very light blond of his hair.

They were cruel eyes. Malicious.

“Hmm... the chicana has light eyes. Green or almond-shaped? Golden?” He wanted me to answer? I would die waiting. “An exotic mix with that tanned skin and dark hair.” “How old is she?” he asked one of the men who took me to that salon.

“Seventeen. She’ll be eighteen in a few months.”

“Hmm...” he mumbled and finally put his hand to my face. I wanted to interrupt again, but I didn’t dare. “Intense. I like that.” I was, like the others, analyzed like a commodity. “She’s pretty too. A virgin?”

“Pure as a saint,” they answered for me.

“Very, very pretty...” the Russian murmured, and then fell silent for a few moments.

I was breathing through a thread. I couldn’t get enough oxygen. I didn’t want him to think I was pretty. I didn’t want him to look at me. I didn’t want him to talk to me. I prayed that he would leave without choosing either of us, for whatever was on his mind. “I’m going to keep her. When she turns eighteen, I’ll send someone to get her.” That was all he said and walked away, turning his back on me, as if he hadn’t just sealed my entire fate. “What?” I screamed, but no one cared. I tried to move, to go after the bastard or do anything to defend myself, but I was grabbed. I started to thrash around like crazy, repeating his words in my mind. I’m going to keep her. When she turns eighteen, I’ll send someone to get her.

— Pick me up? Pick me up for what? — I asked in English, hoping to be heard, but my other arm was grabbed, and I began to be dragged back to the back of the mansion where we were staying, which gave access to the enormous basement, where our rooms were located.

I wasn't taken there, however, along with the others.

“What are you doing? What's going to happen?”

No one answered me anything, until I was pushed into a room.

It wasn't a presidential suite, but a decent room, well lit, with a large bed and clean sheets.

“From now on, you're going to stay here, girl,” one of the men told me.

I felt tears slide down my face, burning with doubt and uncertainty.

“Why?”

“Because you were chosen. You're going to be the wife of the Pakhan, the head of the

Bratva.” And with that information, they left, slamming the door and locking it, leaving me inside, aimless, without information, without knowing what to do to save myself from a future that seemed very, very dark.