Chapter 2 Isabella
The sun dips low behind the twisted cypress trees, casting long shadows across my quaint cottage. I’m stirring a pot of mole sauce, the rich aroma reminding me of Abuela’s kitchen, when the crunch of gravel outside announces an unexpected visitor. A chill of foreboding skitters down my spine before I even glance out the window.
“Isabella,” Juan calls out as he strides up the path, his voice cutting through the stillness of the evening with the same sharpness as his footsteps on the stones.
“ Hola, hermano .” I acknowledge my brother before setting down the wooden spoon with a clatter. I turn the stove off. He never comes to the cottage, so whatever this is won’t be quick. I don’t want to burn the sauce when it’s so close to being perfect.
The screen door squeaks as I push it open. Stepping onto the porch, my heart pounds in rhythm with the cicadas thrumming in the background.
Juan stands at the bottom of the steps, his presence as imposing as the fortified walls that encircle our family’s land. His dark eyes lock onto mine. “I need your help with something.”
I fold my arms across my chest.
“What do you need?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the undercurrent of anxiety.
“Help with the family business,” he replies curtly. That term alone is enough to send a wave of unease crashing over me. Family business means cartel business—Los Serpientes de Cristal’s business.
“Juan, you know I don’t—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“ Hermana , remember who you are. Remember who we are,” he interrupts, his words heavy with the weight of obligation. “You owe it to the family.”
“Owe it to the family?” I retort, anger flaring within me. “Or owe it to you?”
His expression hardens, and I see the El Jefe mask fall into place—the one that reminds everyone he’s not just my brother, he’s the head of the biggest drug cartel in New Orleans.
“You know what happens to those who let us down,” he murmurs, the threat clear in his tone.
I swallow hard, knowing full well the fate of those who cross Juan Vasquez. My gaze drifts to the dying light, to the creeping darkness that seems to mirror my predicament.
“Fine,” I relent.
He sniffs and brushes a thumb across his upper lip.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, already dreading the answer, already feeling the shackles of this family legacy tighten around my wrists.
Juan leans against the doorframe, his silhouette casting a shadow that seems to stretch and claw at my very soul. He’s slow to respond, but when he does, he’s using that voice of his that commands obedience.
“I see fear in your eyes,” he begins, his voice rumbling low in his chest, “but there is nothing to worry about. I would never put you in harm’s way. Family doesn’t do that to one another.”
I scoff inwardly. Living a dangerous existence seems to be a birthright in the Vasquez family. But outwardly, I remain still, my expression carefully neutral as I wait for him to continue.
“Here’s what I need. You’ll oversee the workers in the warehouse. Just keep an eye on things, make sure none of them get sticky fingers with the product.”
I blink at him. He can’t be serious. “Juan, I don’t even know what that entails. How am I supposed to supervise something I know nothing about?”
He smirks, that all-too-familiar arrogance lacing his features. “Relax. You won’t be going in blind. Pedro Hernandez will show you the ropes.”
I frown.
“Maria’s husband,” he adds, as if I don’t know who my best friend’s husband is. “He’s my logistics guy, and he’s as sharp as they come.”
“Pedro?” I repeat, trying to process what he’s asking me to do. At least he doesn’t expect me to run the warehouse. Pedro already does that. From what I’ve seen when Maria and I go to bring him lunch, Pedro’s meticulous, reserved, and he always has a clipboard in hand. If anyone knows the ins and outs of the cartel’s operation, it’s him.
“Exactly.” Juan nods, pleased with himself. “He’ll walk you through the process, teach you how to spot any discrepancies. You’re intelligent. You’ll pick it up in no time.”
I let out a slow breath, trying to tamp down the rising panic. My brother’s world—one I’ve tried so hard to avoid—is closing in, and this time, it seems there’s no escaping its grasp. A bead of sweat trickles down my spine, not from the Louisiana heat but from the pressure building in my head.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” I say, my voice measured but firm. “Overseeing a drug cutting warehouse isn’t something I can—”
“Comfortable?” He cuts me off, and his tone is like a whip crack, sharp and unforgiving. His eyes narrow into dark slits, and the air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken threats. “You think this is about comfort? This is about responsibility, Isabella. Our family’s business. It’s far past time you join it. You live off the money. Now it’s time to work for it. I won’t allow you to continue your lazy existence.”
His accusation stings, a slap to my face without the physical contact. Lazy. The word hangs in the air, an unjust label that doesn’t fit me, but it’s the currency he trades in—guilt and obligation.
“That’s not fair. I’ve always helped with the legitimate fronts, the restaurants, the real estate—” I try to defend myself, but my words falter against his imposing figure.
“Legitimate fronts,” he scoffs, pacing like a predator circling its prey. “It’s time you step fully into the Vasquez legacy. You’re not a child anymore, Bella.”
I want to scream, to unleash the fury clawing at my insides, but I swallow it down, letting it churn in my stomach. He’s right—I’m not a child. But that means I should have a choice, shouldn’t it? Usually it would, but not in this case. If I dared to disobey him, I have a feeling he’d be just as ruthless with me as he is with everyone he’s not related to.
“Fine,” I concede, the word sour on my tongue. “I’ll do it.”
“Good.” There’s a hint of triumph in his voice as he strides towards his car. “I’m heading to the warehouse now. You’re coming with me.”
The thought of entering that den of vipers, where the underbelly of our family’s empire thrives, sets my nerves on edge. Yet, what choice do I have?
After taking a moment to put my mole in the fridge and grabbing my purse, I head back outside, not bothering to lock the door. There’s no need since I’m surrounded by my family’s compound, a walled-in plantation that spans many acres.
I approach the sleek black SUV waiting outside. It’s a symbol of power, of freedom—a freedom I feel slipping through my fingers.
“Get in,” Juan orders, pushing the rear door open for me.
I obey, sliding into the back seat next to him. His driver doesn’t spare me so much as a glance as we speed down the plantation’s winding road. When we reach the armed guardhouse, a guard salutes my brother before pushing a button to open the electronic gate.
We continue in silence until the warehouse comes into view. I’ve been here before, but not to work. It’s a sprawling fortress of cold metal and concrete. It’s also heavily fortified with armed guards. We stop at the gate long enough for the guard to spot my brother, then we’re waved through. Parking outside one of the doors, the driver turns off the car and waits.
“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 where I 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.
“Senorita 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 facade.
“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.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine, and I swallow the lump forming in my throat. His indifference tells me more than I wish to know. I force myself to nod, but my thoughts race with dark possibilities.
“Okay,” I reply, though the word tastes like ash in my mouth.
Turning on my heel, I leave them to their liquor-soaked bravado, the weight of the unsaid suffocating me with every step I take. He won’t help me, but I won’t give up that easily. I’ll find another way to discover what happened to the little girl.
Hours later, I am exhausted. The weight of my brother’s world presses down on me like a thousand chains. I’m walking through the warehouse when the door swings open. Maria steps inside, a bag of takeout filling the air with the scent of carne asada and lime. My stomach rumbles.
“Isabella?” Maria’s voice is tinged with disbelief as she takes in the sight of me standing among crates stamped with our family’s mark. “What are you doing here?”
“Long story,” I mutter, glancing around at the workers who pretend not to listen. “I’ll fill you in later—away from prying ears. I think I’m supposed to stay until the day ends.”
Maria nods, her eyes wide with unspoken questions. “Do you want to get out of here after your shift?” she asks softly, her concern for me evident even in the chaos of the warehouse.
“More than anything.” My reply is instant, raw with the need to escape.
“Good, it’s a plan then. I’ll pick you up when you’re done.” She squeezes my hand briefly, a lifeline in the madness, before making her way over to Pedro. After delivering the meal, she kissed her husband and asks, “When will Isabella be able to leave?”
“Well, it has been a long first day. How about now?”
“ Gracias, mi amor .” She kisses him, then turns to me. “Let’s go.”
“Where are you two headed?” Pedro asks.
“Out for a drink,” Maria replies, still smiling as if nothing’s wrong. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Be safe,” he says, stepping back. His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer than necessary, but I look away, unwilling to engage with the unspoken questions in his eyes.
As we pull away from the warehouse, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. The car moves through the humid streets of New Orleans, a city that never truly sleeps. Neon signs and streetlights paint Maria’s face in shifting colors as she glances over, concern etched in her features.
“Isabella, how did you get tangled up in that mess? I thought you wanted nothing to do with the family business,” Maria asks, her voice soft but probing.
I sigh, staring out the window. “Juan. He made me.”
“ Idiota, ” she mutters. “Not you. Him.”
“I know.” I’m silent for a second before everything I’ve been suppressing comes blaring out. “I can’t stand it, Maria! The way our family… our so-called business hurts people. It’s like we’re caught in this endless cycle of violence and power.”
Maria reaches over and rests a comforting hand on my clenched fists. “ Carino , sometimes survival means we have to turn a blind eye. You know how things are.”
“That may work for you, but I can’t handle it the way you can. Looking away doesn’t erase the damage my family causes. Do you know what one of the workers asked me? ‘Where’s my child?’ She’s ten years old and she’s missing.”
“ Ay dios mío .” Maria crosses herself before kissing the gold Our Lady of Guadalupe cameo she wears around her neck.
We fall into silence. She knows just as well as I do that I’m trapped. There’s no way out unless I do something drastic. But what?
Stopping at a crossroads, something catches my eye. I gaze out the window at a gaudy banner flapping in the breeze.
“Five thousand dollars?” I gasp, reading the sign.
“ Que ?” Maria asks.
“What’s ‘Amateur Night’?” I glance at the neon over the entrance. “Voodoo Velvet Gentlemen’s Club? Is that a—”
“That’s the place I was telling you about!” Maria leans over, practically crawling into my lap to look out the window.
“The strip club?”
“ Sí .”
“Hey, maybe I should give stripping a shot, huh?” I joke halfheartedly, trying to lighten the mood. “At least then I’d be making my own money instead of living off the cartel’s blood money.”
“Isabella!” Maria exclaims, her tone a mix of amusement and warning. “Be careful even joking about that. I told you about the opening night bar brawl there, right? This city is a powder keg waiting to blow.”
“Yeah, I remember,” I reply, my laughter fading. “Sometimes, I just feel so trapped, you know? And now that Juan is making me work for him… I just don’t know what to do.”
Maria doesn’t respond immediately, her gaze returning to the road. I can tell she knows exactly what I mean, but she’s chosen her path—one of willful ignorance. A path I’m not sure I can follow.
The reflection in the side mirror holds my attention as we speed away from the strip club, the banner shrinking in the distance. My blue eyes, usually so sharp and resolute, now hold a flicker of uncertainty. For a moment, I let myself get lost in that reflection, contemplating if the universe is giving me a sign—a glaring neon sign, at that.
“Thinking about amateur night?” Maria teases with a side glance, her lips curving into a smile. She doesn’t think I’m serious.
“ Más o menos ,” I murmur, my gaze still fixed on the mirror.
The truth is, the idea of dancing on that stage, as ludicrous as it sounds, represents a freedom I’ve never known. Free from the cartel’s grasp, free to make choices without the weight of the Vasquez legacy on my shoulders.
“Isabella,” Maria’s voice pulls me back, “you’re not seriously considering…”
I shake my head, snapping out of the trance. “No, of course not.” My voice comes out more defensive than I intend, and I force a laugh. “It’s just a fantasy, right? A silly escapist thought.”
But as the city lights blur past us, casting long shadows across the car’s interior, the image of that banner lingers in my mind. Five thousand dollars—it’s not just the money, but what it represents: a chance to start fresh, to forge a path on my own terms. To break away before I’m in too deep.
“Isa, you’re not alone in this,” she says softly, sensing my inner turmoil. Her hand finds mine, her grip warm and reassuring.
“Sometimes it feels like it.” The confession slips out, raw and unguarded. “They say family is everything, but at what cost?”
“Let’s just focus on tonight,” she suggests, bringing me back to the present. She’s good at compartmentalizing, at shutting out the darkness that our world thrives in. Maybe too good.
“Right,” I say, trying to match her levity. But the weight of my brother’s expectations sits heavy on my chest, a constant reminder that my life isn’t truly my own.
As Maria navigates through the streets of New Orleans, the vibrant city alive with its eclectic mix of music and mystery, I allow myself one last glance at the mirror, at the fading banner. Maria’s right—stripping is insane. But at least I wouldn’t be like the rest of my family. I wouldn’t be killing anyone, directly or indirectly. I’d finally be free to live life on my own terms. And it would only be a temporary step toward a better life. I wouldn’t stay there forever. The whole idea is crazy, but so is everything else in my life. Would this really be that different? Could I actually go through with it? I don’t know yet, but the date listed on the banner means I’ve got five days to figure it out.