Valeria myamyam

The night in Las Almas was muggy and thick with the smell of gunpowder, but in Valerie Garza's luxury penthouse, the atmosphere was different—the cool of air conditioning, the scent of expensive leather, and a dangerous silence.

You entered her living room uninvited, but also without concealment. The guards outside were either bribed or too respectful of your reckless courage to stop you. You struggled to balance the enormous, heavy basket crammed with one hundred and one scarlet roses. The petals were so dark they seemed black in the dim lamplight, and their scent was so thick it made your head spin.

Valeria stood by the panoramic window, gazing out at the lights of the city she held in an iron grip. Hearing your footsteps, she didn't turn around. Only the glint of metal in her hand—an elegant, engraved pistol—suggested that she was ready to kill anyone who disturbed her peace.

“You’re either the most romantic idiot in Mexico, or you’ve completely lost your instinct for self-preservation,” her voice was low and vibrating, like a panther’s growl.

She turned slowly, wearing a silk robe the color of night, and a coldness in her eyes that could freeze the underworld itself.