Page 6

“Let’s go,” Juan says, striding toward the door with an authority that brooks no argument.

I follow him, my heart pounding against my ribs as we step inside. The corrugated walls hum faintly with the vibrations of hidden industry. Inside, the air is thick with the sharp tang of chemicals and sweat, a stifling cocktail that clings to the skin.

Rows of scarred metal tables stretch beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, where masked workers methodically divide pure white powder into neat, deadly lines. Scales, plastic bags, and stacks of cash clutter the surfaces, their presence mundane in this grim assembly line.

Armed guards with cold eyes linger in the shadows, their fingers resting lightly on the triggers of their rifles. In the far corner, a cracked leather chair sits beside a desk strewn with burner phones and a ledger inked in a language of numbers and blood. This is a place where ambition and death dance hand in hand, their rhythm relentless and unforgiving.

“Ah,hermanita!” Pedro greets us, his surprise quickly masked by a professional smile.

“Pedro,” Juan begins, clapping a hand onto the smaller man’s shoulder, “meet your new supervisor for the cutting floor.”

“Isabella?” Pedro’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief before he quickly composes himself. “Of course, it’s great to have you with us.”

“Family is everything,” Juan says, his tone leaving no room for debate. “She will finally be joining us after all these years.”

I’m not sure what years he’s talking about. I’m not even twenty-five yet.

Pedro nods, the gesture almost robotic. “Of course,El Jefe. Family above all.” His voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of something else there—fear? Resignation?

“Good,” Juan says, turning to leave. “Show her what to do. I’ll be in the office. Come talk to me when you’re done.”

They exchange a look that I can’t quite read before Juan disappears through a side door.

“Come, Isabella,” Pedro says, leading me past rows of busy workers. He stops beside a steel table laden with scales and bagged product. “Your job is simple. You weigh the product when it arrives, and again when it leaves. Understand?”

“Got it,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.

I watch as he demonstrates, his movements precise and practiced. He walks me through each step as I weigh and record the numbers on a ledger.

“Excellent. If you need anything or get confused about what to do, just ask. And if the count is off, call me immediately.” Without another word, Pedro heads off toward the office where Juan awaits, leaving me amidst the hum of activity.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the racing thoughts in my head. This is not where I want to be, but for now, it’s whereI am. And if I’m going to survive this world, I’ll need to play the part—even if every weighed gram feels like a piece of my soul is being chipped away.

The workers glance up briefly before returning their focus to precision-cutting the product that sustains our family’s empire. I feel their wariness, a vibe in the air that’s as thick as the tension gripping my chest.

“Señorita Vasquez,” a voice hisses from one of the tables. A woman with weathered hands and eyes that hold too many untold stories beckons me closer. In a hushed tone laced with desperation, she says, “Can you find out about my daughter, Claudia? She’s ten years old. She came here with me from Mexico. I’m Renata, her mother.”

The plea wraps around my heart like a vise. I nod, pressing my lips together to steel myself against the wave of empathy threatening to crack my façade.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I whisper back, offering a small squeeze to her shoulder before moving on.

My mind wrestles with the implications of her request—the darkness that might lurk behind her daughter’s disappearance. Since I barely know anything about business, I have no idea if these people are here of their own free will or not. The least I can do is try to help her. It’s wrong for a mother to wonder about the fate of her child. They should be together. When and how did they get separated? And how will I ever be able to help her? Juan will know something, or at least be able to find someone who can look into the matter.

Pushing open the door to the office, the scent of expensive tequila washes over me. Juan and Pedro’s laughter grates against my nerves as I approach.

“Juan,” I interrupt, not caring to mask the urgency in my voice. “Why isn’t Renata’s daughter with her mother?”

“Who?” he asks, frowning.

“The worker, the one we passed earlier—she asked about her daughter, Claudia. What happened to her?”

Juan’s laughter dies instantly, his smile fading as he meets my gaze. He pours another shot of tequila and downs it before responding.

“The kid is gone,” he says flatly.

“Gone where? What does that mean?” My stomach churns.

“Don’t worry about it. Things happen. People disappear. It’s part of the life we lead.”