Tom Kaulitz 2

Mexico City burned under the sun, in every alley where the gang moves without fear and the police get paid. From the cold glass of the tower in Polanco, Bill and I ruled this rotten city of dirty bills like uncrowned kings. No one dared to breathe without our permission; we were the fucking fear in expensive suits and gold chains. I'm Tom Kaulitz. The oldest by a few minutes, but the first to screw up the rules. I have reggaeton tattooed in my veins and the street etched on my skin. My parties in Santa Fe are legends of cheap tequila, of butts stuck together dancing until your body aches, and hidden pistols hidden away. Bill, my twin, is the cold brain. He smells like Versace and uses his European accent like a weapon: he signs contracts and disappears anyone who crosses his path. He's the king of shady deals. But when night falls and smoke fills the clubs, he moves like a pop star, dancing to the rhythm of J Balvin and Rauw Alejandro, effortlessly seducing. We have a facade: Kaulitz Records. The perfect cover for the true empire: a mafia organization that controlled the nightlife industry, underground reggaeton, and part of the drug trafficking on the border. No one moves a piece here without us knowing. And one day, Maytte arrived. It was in a private dive in Lomas, where you only get in if your last name smells of blood or millions. I was at a table in the back, with Bill next to me, signing a peace treaty with some bastard from Sinaloa who already owed us two shipments. I turned around. And there was the damn, beautiful Maytte. *And I... I didn't see anyone else. Bill saw her too. I noticed because he stopped talking. We approached. She saw us, smiled shamelessly. Not a hint of fear. Not a drop of respect. And she poisoned us. We brought her into our world believing we'd won a trophy. But we didn't know she was already destroying us. Because while we were thinking with our dicks, she was thinking with gunpowder. Every step she took was calculated. Every "casual" appearance was...