Mansion in Morumbi. Double fare. The client needs someone today. Double, he asked, looking at the bills on the table. Send me the address. I’ll be there in two hours. He didn’t know, of course, that he was heading to a house of mourning and the rage of six girls who had declared war on the world. Two hours later, the taxi stopped in front of the tall wrought-iron gates of the Mendonza Albuquerque mansion.
Luía came downstairs simply dressed in her white blouse and worn jeans. She carried an old backpack, her curly hair was pulled back in a makeshift bun, and her dark eyes seemed to observe everything without fear. From the window of the upper floor, six pairs of eyes watched her. “Another victim,” Mariana murmured in an icy tone. The twins laughed at Coro.
“We’ll see how long this lasts.” When the employee crossed the threshold, Ricardo greeted her in the office. He tried to explain, but didn’t know where to begin. “The house needs a deep clean,” he finally said. “And the girls are going through a difficult time. Mr. Augusto told me it would only be for cleaning, not childcare.” “Exactly, nothing more.”
