Chapter 1
CONTENT WARNINGThis story contains scenes of extreme violence, crime, domination, and morally questionable situations. Not recommended for sensitive readers. If this kind of narrative isn’t for you, I suggest finding another read.
My family goes way back, one of those names that echoes through history since the Portuguese first hit Brazil. When the caravels docked, my ancestors came along — but not to do business, build churches, or farm the land. They came to steal, kidnap, and extort. And centuries later, that’s still what we do best.
Our criminal empire has spread into every possible front. Drug trafficking, gambling, concessions, political influence — if there’s money and power involved, we’re there. You might even know our last name, maybe you’ve even donated to our charities or shown up at our fundraisers. But you’d never connect us to what we really are. To the world, we’re philanthropists, society’s elite, white, well-dressed, and untouchable. Here in Rio, I’ve seen a line of governors and mayors come crawling on their knees to kiss Grandpa’s hand. They got greedy, eyes too big, most of ‘em locked up now.
The family structure is simple, almost military. At the top is Grandpa — we always call him Gramps — the old wolf, the head of the clan. Right below him come the Uncles and Parents, running different arms of the business. Us younger ones are Sons and Cousins, the soldiers of the new generation. And of course, there are the affiliates, those who orbit our influence without ever truly belonging. Brothers-in-law, for example, never become family, no matter how hard they try. Here, blood ties matter — but they’re not everything. What counts is loyalty.
And me? Well, I was born into this empire. I learned early on that to survive in this world, it’s not enough to be strong. You have to be ruthless.
In my family cell, there was a tragedy. An Uncle decided to fight for territory, and in the power struggle, he had the car my parents and brother were in blown up. He died too, family sentence, but not before I sealed the peace with my own hands. I was the one who pulled the trigger. I was 13.
Gramps didn’t hesitate — he put all the Uncle’s territories in my name. And since then, I’ve run my House alone, with the help of my affiliates and Sons. And before you ask any dumb questions: no, they’re not biological sons. Whenever I use a family title with a capital letter, I’m talking about the rank in the Family. Don’t make me lose my patience explaining this shit every time, got it?
I never had a normal adolescence. I studied abroad because staying here meant a death sentence. When I came back to Brazil, it never crossed my mind to hit an open club. I could never afford to be careless. From the start, if I wanted to go out, I’d shut the place down just for me.
Actually, it’s still like that. I own a club that, if it were about money, would’ve closed ages ago. But I love that place. Only rich people get in. Every big foreign celeb who comes to Rio passes through. And when there’s no celeb, I make sure to bring some. Inside, there are all the amenities for every taste, if you catch my drift.
My looks? Simple. I’ve got real Portuguese features — fair skin, straight black hair. I made some generic tweaks to my appearance because nobody’s gotta live with certain flaws. Rhinoplasty to slim the top of my nose, a slight boob job. I’m no bombshell, but I look killer in a bikini. And my style? If it doesn’t cost at least twenty grand, I don’t step out. Personal rule. I know how hard-earned my money is, so I’m spending it on myself. And if you think that’s shallow? Your problem.
Security is never too much. I’m always surrounded, but two guys run everything.
The first is Big Jan — a huge Black dude almost three meters tall, muscles like steel, and a face that makes anyone shake. But the truth? He’s got a heart of gold. Loves chocolate, and every time I travel, I gotta bring him a suitcase full. Smart as hell, devours philosophy books, gives me advice when I need it. The other is the Pastor. Religious, discreet, always handling our church business. His face gives nothing away, but he’s a born negotiator. Only problem: trigger finger’s too soft for my taste. Hot-tempered, impatient, impulsive. But effective. And in the end, that’s what matters.
Then there’s Timothy, my intern. He’s a rare piece. A natural scammer, one of those born with the gift of the hustle. He’s only alive because, besides being cute, I figured he had something better to offer me.
Remember my club? Well, Timothy would hit it up and pull a slick scam on the tab cards. People would pay him, and with a clever little device, he’d tweak the bill amounts, pocketing the rest. That’s when I learned to hate deadbeats — ‘cause it’s always them trying to dip into my cash. The Pastor, of course, wanted to handle it the obvious way: drag the kid out back and wipe him out. But me? Well, I’ve got a thing for slick guys. And Timothy was prime. You know those downtown boys, tatted up, drawling speech, surfing all day and living off daddy’s money? That was him. An irritating charm. But before I decide what to do with him, let me tell you how this story started.
We were throwing a massive party for some gringos who came to shoot a movie in Brazil. Can’t name names, but it was big Hollywood types — the kind you’ve seen in theaters a million times. I was having fun, getting cozy with one of them, when Big Jan called me over. They never interrupt me. They only do it when shit’s serious.
He came up, stance solid, but voice low enough not to draw eyes.
“Boss lady, we got the guy from the skim. He’s in the back room. What do you wanna do with him? The Pastor’s already thrown out his idea. You know it’s always the same.”
I sighed, pulling my eyes off my catch for the night.
“Jan, honey, first let me figure out how he did it. Don’t touch him. I’ll head up.”
Because before deciding someone’s fate, I like to see if they can still be useful to me. That’s what sets us apart from the favela thugs.
I gave one last kiss to my gringo actor — poor guy had no clue what he was getting into — and headed to the back room to chat with the punk.
The back room wasn’t just a room. It was a cell. A cold, windowless space with a table, two chairs, and nothing else. The setup was soundproofed to keep noise in check. Inside, you couldn’t hear shit from outside. Outside, no one heard or saw what went down inside. A detail that made all the difference.
When I got to the door, I held out my hand to Big Jan, who handed over my piece without a word. A .45, pink.
Yeah, pink. Got a problem with that, fuck?
“Jan, is he tied up?”
“Yeah, boss lady.”
Big Jan opened the door for me and went in first. He grabbed the kid’s chair, pulled it back, and checked the restraints were still good. After making sure everything was set, he gave me a nod.
Meanwhile, the little shit wouldn’t shut up.
He was yapping about rights, demanding a lawyer, threatening lawsuits. As if any of that meant jack in there. As if anyone in there gave a damn.
I sat down calmly across from him, no rush, no expression. I pulled out a pin of coke, dumped the powder on the table, and started chopping and lining it up. Every move precise, meticulous. Obsessive. I didn’t say a word.
The silence got to him.
He stared at me wide-eyed, trying to figure if I was really about to snort right there in front of him.
“Tell me how you did it with the credit cards.”
My voice came out steady, without looking up.
He hesitated. Maybe trying to decide if I was totally nuts or just putting on a show. But trust wasn’t an option for him right then, so he started talking. Explained the method, the scam details. The device, the process, everything I already knew. What I cared about was the setup.
He wasn’t in it alone. Of course there was an inside guy. Someone had to feed him the encryption. But smart, he didn’t drop any names.
I kept lining up the coke, no hurry. When I finished, I looked up at him.
“You snort, kid?”
He swallowed hard.
“No, ma’am… I don’t like it…”
I grabbed a two-hundred bill, rolled it slow, and pointed at the line.
“Then snort.”
He froze.
“No, I said I don’t snort, look, let’s make a deal and…”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Silence.
“Snort, now!”
I wanted him to snort. The second I laid eyes on him, an idea hit me. The money he stole was chump change. A hundred, two hundred grand, even five… Pocket lint! A disappearance, a drop to the cops, whatever. But first, I wanted to see how far he’d go.
My voice got louder, and he stiffened, in disbelief.
I pulled my pink .45 and pointed the barrel at him.
“Snort this shit. Now. All three lines.”
And he did.
I had to shove the rolled-up one-hundred note in his nose and press his shirt against the other nostril so he didn’t make a mess.
“If you waste any, I’ll rip your nose off. You hear me?”
It was almost funny watching him snort that cocaine, tied up in front of me, while I laughed, having a blast.
I waited, saying nothing, as he tried to handle the three lines. And he did. I saw the rush hit him almost right away.
His eyes bugged out, muscles tensed, breathing sped up.
“Kid, you’re gonna have to make this up to me, you know that?”
He blinked a few times, trying to focus on me.
“Yes, ma’am, I… I still have some of the money! I made some investments, I can raise the rest!” The words came fast, desperate, wired on coke.
“No, you little fuck.” I tilted my head a bit. “I was at a table with a Hollywood actor, his hand between my legs, when they called me because of you.”
He was totally lost.
“W-w-what?”
I laughed.
“I couldn’t believe it either.”
I stood up slow, slid my panties down without rushing, folded them, and set them aside. Walked around the metal table to him, straddled his lap like I was gonna sit, but settled on the table instead, spreading my legs.
I gave him the best, most amazing view of me.
“You like pussy?”
He locked up. Hands tied behind his back, eyes bulging, shakes starting to hit.
“You deaf, fuck?”
I drew the gun that was digging into my back and pressed it firm against his forehead.
“You’re gonna eat me. And you’ve got three minutes to make me cum real good.”
His face was pure panic.
Maybe he thought I was joking. Maybe still trying to figure if this was punishment or a game. But after a frozen second, he swallowed hard and leaned in slow.
The gun stayed pressed to his forehead, but that wasn’t what had him shaking now.
His tongue touched my hot skin hesitant, a first shy contact, soft, wet, warm, sliding slow over my swollen lips. I was already wet before, but now I was dripping.
He tested, tasted, explored, and the flavor of my arousal hit him like a jolt. I saw it in his eyes. The addiction started right there.
Then, he sucked.
My breath hitched when I felt his lips close around my clit, his tongue circling, squeezing light, teasing before diving in for real. The tip circled slow, hot and precise, pressing, teasing, until it slid down and licked my full length, from the wet entrance to the top, then lips closing back around my swollen clit.
My breathing got heavy.
The moans slipped out unbidden, breaking through my ragged breaths. He switched between sucking and licking, exploring every fold, every curve, every inch of my soaked skin, no hesitation now. His tongue plunged as deep as it could, sliding and rubbing, hot and quick, pressing and gliding, while his nose brushed my clit, sending little shocks through my body.
The heat rose fast.
My arousal ran in streams, dripping down to my ass, soaking the insides of my thighs, as he buried himself deeper between them, licking up everything he could, hungry, desperate. Each lick pulled a spasm from my belly, a shiver up my spine, the pleasure building so fast my vision was blurring.
Then, he zeroed in on the spot. His rhythm shifted.
His tongue moved firm and precise, massaging my clit in quick circles, each slide pushing my pleasure closer to the edge. The suction ramped up, mixed with long, greedy licks, devouring everything I gave him. My other hand gripped his hair hard, guiding, forcing his face into me, and I didn’t let go of the gun for a second, while my hips started moving on their own, sliding against his mouth, riding the pleasure like I was on top of him.
He moaned into me, and the vibration spread like electricity through my core, making my head fall back, eyes shut, the pleasure building, building, building…
I was almost there.
My thighs clamped around his head, trapping him, smothering him with the scent and taste of my pleasure. He couldn’t get out. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop.
And when I came, I came hard.
My body arched, mouth open, but no sound came out for the first seconds, just the hot shock of orgasm ripping through every muscle in my core, stealing my breath.
My cum ran down his mouth, messing up his face, dripping off his chin, hitting the floor.
I fell back, laughing my ass off at the whole thing, still feeling the light spasms run through my body. If I told my girls about this, none of them would believe it.
“Ah, what a fuck-up.” I laughed harder, wiping my face. “I should’ve filmed it. How stupid am I!”
I looked down and saw his expression. It wasn’t a face of pleasure. It was a face of someone who thought he was alive.
The poor bastard looked up at me with that nervous grin, the glassy coke shine in his eyes, figuring that since I was satisfied, he’d walk out breathing.
Men are so damn naive.
I slid off the table slow, legs shaky, still feeling the subtle aftershocks echoing between my thighs. I recovered calm, breathing deep, fixing my hair while he stayed still, eyes locked on me, between relief and raw panic.
I ran my hand over his face, smearing my cum on his skin. Just because I could.
“Fuck, cutie, you eat pussy real good.” I smiled, looking down at him. “Good job.”
His eyes blinked fast, like he was trying to figure if that was a death sentence or real praise.
“That’s why I don’t buy it when women say guys can’t eat pussy.” I grabbed my panties from the table, shook them out, and slid them up my legs slow. I love watching a man watch me get dressed. “You just need the right motivation.”
I leaned down to his level, whispering in his ear:
“A gun to the head… and coke.”
I saw him swallow hard. The shakes came back. His chest heaved too fast, eyes darting side to side, lost between the drug high and the uncertainty of what came next.
And I loved it.
The fear mixed with the thrill.
But I’d played enough.
“But enough talk. I gotta go.”
I grabbed the gun and checked the safety, clicking it off with a sharp snap.
“I never know how to unjam this damn thing…” I muttered, thoughtful.
Then, without hesitation, I pointed it at his head again.
And pulled the trigger.