Valeria

The air smells like diesel, agave, and bullshit—my kind of vibe. My heels click against the polished marble floor, echoing through the mansion like a gunshot, crisp and sharp. I know you’re following behind me. I can feel your awkward energy, like you don’t know where to look or what the fuck to say. Smart, though. Quiet is good. Quiet means I don’t have to listen to whatever ass-kissing speech you had rehearsed.

“Keep up, pendejo,” I mutter over my shoulder, not even bothering to slow down. If you trip over the rug, that’s your problem. I glance back for a second to catch the way your eyes dart around, trying to drink in every detail of my house like a horny tourist. Yeah, it’s big. Yeah, it’s beautiful. Don’t get too excited—I don’t need you leaving fingerprints on anything.

This place… it’s mine. Every inch of it screams power, from the gilded chandeliers to the blood-red walls in the dining room. I fucking earned this. Every deal, every betrayal, every bullet fired—this mansion is my throne, and I’m the queen. El Sin Nombre. Except no one knows that part, not even you.

“Eyes up, cabrón,” I snap when I catch you staring too long at a painting of me in the hallway. It’s tasteful—mostly. Low-cut dress, a little leg. Modest, really, for someone who could walk into a room naked and still demand respect. “Admire me later. You’re not paid to drool.”

We pass a door, and I smirk, pausing just long enough to let you catch up. The room beyond is dim, and the faint sound of laughter filters out. My sicarios. My boys. Half of them are drunk by now, I’m sure, playing poker or dominoes or whatever the fuck keeps them entertained. They’re loyal to me—terrified, but loyal. It’s cute.

“Through here’s the courtyard,” I say, gesturing lazily as I push open a heavy oak door. The sunlight hits like a slap, bright and warm, bouncing off the glossy tiles of the fountain in the center. The water trickles softly, and the air is thick with the scent of orange blossoms. Romantic, right? A perfect little oasis in the middle of my chaos. Too bad it’s wasted on most of the assholes who work for me.

I glance at you, watching the way you hesitate before stepping outside. Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe you’re realizing this isn’t some cartel fantasy. This is real. I’m real. And if you fuck up, I’ll bury you under that fountain so fast they’ll still be scraping bits of you off the tiles next month.

“This place,” I start, leaning casually against one of the stone pillars, “isn’t just a mansion. It’s a statement. You know what it says? It says I have more money, power, and balls than any cabrón who’s ever tried to fuck me over.” I let that sink in for a second before adding, “Metaphorically, of course. My balls are huge—ask anyone.”

The corner of my mouth twitches as I catch your reaction. You’re trying not to laugh, which is good. I like someone who knows when to laugh and when to shut the fuck up.

We start walking again, past the pool where a couple of my guys are lounging. One of them whistles, but he quickly shuts up when I glare at him. “Pendejos,” I mutter under my breath. “Like they’ve never seen legs before.”

You’re quiet, which I appreciate. I hate small talk. People always think they need to fill the silence with something clever, but they just end up sounding stupid. Silence is better. It’s honest.

As we round the corner, I stop suddenly, turning to face you. You nearly bump into me, and I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “Let me make one thing clear,” I say, my voice low and sharp. “You’re here because I want you here. That means you work for me, you answer to me, and you don’t fucking breathe without my permission, alright? Good. Now, let's continue."

The air is thick in Las Almas. It’s not just the heat, though that sticks to my skin like a clingy ex I didn’t have the patience to fuck off properly. No, it’s more. The weight of the place. My place. Mi casa. Every breath feels like it comes with a question mark. Who’s watching? Who’s loyal? Who thinks they’re smart enough to be a cabrón about it?

You’re new, and I can smell it on you. Fresh. Maybe a little nervous, but you mask it well. I like that. Quiet nerves can keep you alive around here, but the way you carry yourself tells me you know what you’re worth. Chingón. I can work with that. I lead you through the main hall, my boots making a soft clack against the tile, deliberate steps that echo confidence. It’s my house, my kingdom. La puta reina de todo. Even if no one’s supposed to know.

The mansion is excessive. I know it. You know it. But qué chingados do I care? You step into the space, and I can see you taking it in—the carved wooden beams overhead, the gold-accented railings, the glossy ceramic tile that cost more than most people’s entire lives. The place reeks of money, power, and just enough taste to keep it from screaming, “drug lord cliché!” Well. Except maybe the giant painting of a jaguar eating a snake. That one stays because it’s fucking cool.

We stop near a balcony, the kind with a view that stretches out over Las Almas, the streets below sprawling like veins. I lean on the rail, casual, letting the view do the work of making an impression. You’re behind me, probably trying not to look at my ass. Or maybe you are. I wouldn’t blame you; I wore these jeans on purpose. I shift my weight a little, just to see if I catch you slipping. Nah. Professional.

“Nice view, ¿no?” I say, glancing over my shoulder. The breeze picks up, stirring my hair.

I keep walking, leading you down a corridor where the walls are lined with art that costs more than God. Most of it isn’t even good; I just buy whatever catches my eye when I’m bored. One piece is just a huge red dot in the middle of a white canvas. Makes no sense. It’s like the artist finished it and said, “You know what? Fuck meaning.” Respect.

I stop by a room and gesture for you to step inside. You hesitate, just for a second, but it’s enough to make me smirk. It’s the gun room, of course. Racks of weapons line the walls, polished and pristine, enough firepower to level a small country. My favorite is the gold-plated Desert Eagle sitting pretty in its case, a gift from someone I had to bury six months later. Shame. He had good taste.

“Take your pick,” I say, watching you like a hawk. “You break it, you buy it. And trust me, chingado, you can’t afford it.” My tone is casual, but I’m testing you, seeing how you handle the weight of all this. Some recruits freeze up here, overwhelmed by the sheer fucking gravity of it. Others get cocky, and those are the ones I keep an eye on.