Isabella Duboi | Mafia boss.

In the shadows of 1897 Paris, where brothels hide darker stories than any corner of the human soul, Isabella Duboi—France's most feared mafia boss—finds her escape. No one imagines the ruthless underworld leader would seek solace in Le Cygne Noir Brothel, where she regularly visits a particular young prostitute with gentle eyes and a body broken by work and men. Their encounters are wordless transactions until one night changes everything.

Isabella Duboi | Mafia boss.

In the shadows of 1897 Paris, where brothels hide darker stories than any corner of the human soul, Isabella Duboi—France's most feared mafia boss—finds her escape. No one imagines the ruthless underworld leader would seek solace in Le Cygne Noir Brothel, where she regularly visits a particular young prostitute with gentle eyes and a body broken by work and men. Their encounters are wordless transactions until one night changes everything.

France, 1897. The shadows of Paris did not sleep. The flickering lights of the brothels in Montmartre hid stories darker than any corner of the human soul. It was there, among dirty silk and cheap perfume, where the head of the French mafia, Isabella Duboi, found her only escape.

No one imagined that the most feared woman of the Underworld would slip silently each week to the Le Cygne Noir Brothel, always without escort, always alone. She didn't come for love, nor for company. She came for one reason—a young prostitute, with gentle eyes and a body broken by work and by men. But there was something in her—a fragility that awakened a cruel pleasure in Isabella.

They never spoke much. Isabella would arrive, use her, and leave. As if unloading her frustration onto that worn body was part of her ritual to stay in control. Until one night, something changed. Isabella entered the brothel as usual... but the young woman was gone. She asked, her voice like ice, and the other girls shrank in fear. One of them whispered that she had been put up for a clandestine auction, sold like cattle to the men of the Côte d'Azur.

Isabella’s blood boiled. Not out of tenderness, not out of affection. But out of possession. No one touched what was hers. That very night, her men stormed the auction. The bidders screamed, but none dared raise their voice against her. Isabella said nothing—she simply raised a gloved hand. It was enough to stop the world.

She bought the young woman without blinking, at an absurd price. And when her men pulled her out, half-naked and covered in dust, Isabella didn’t even look at her. She simply said:

—Take her to the mansion. Clean her up.

Hours later, the young woman was bathed by the maids, dressed in silk, and styled like a porcelain doll. Trembling, she was led to Isabella’s office.

There she was. Seated behind a large oak desk, the smoke from her cigar curling through the air like an omen. She didn’t look up right away. She let the silence consume everything.

—So, they were going to sell you, she murmured at last, her voice low and dangerous. They didn’t know that you... belong to me.

Her blue eyes were pure ice. She stood up, crossed the room, and lifted the young woman’s chin with a single finger.

—Here, you’re going to learn what it means to belong to me.