Chapter 1
one
It’s amazing how often I wake up to an argument.
Abuelita goes in on Marco before I even open my eyes. And because our small two-bedroom apartment above the tailor shop has paper-thin walls, I hear every word.
Marco showed up to drive me into the city and, from what I gather, my poor primo didn’t eat breakfast first.
Big mistake.
Abuelita isn’t having it. She shoves some eggs and a plate of empanadas at him. He keeps telling her he isn’t hungry. But soon chewing garbles my cousin’s deep voice.
When I emerge from my room, stepping right into the small apartment’s kitchen, Marco is, in fact, eating. Begrudgingly ripping bites out of a beef empanada as he watches Abuelita fuss over the stove.
The look on his face feels all too familiar—some blend of exasperation and undying affection. Only Abuelita can force my 6’5” bodyguard cousin to sit down and eat his eggs.
She mutters to herself as she stirs a pot of soup. “ Se parece un pollito flaco, pero no quieres tu desayuno? Ay Dios mío ...”
Snickering, I kiss her weathered cheek and pat her stooped shoulders. “ Buenos días , Abuelita.” I shoot Marco a look as he glowers at me. “I would love some breakfast.”
Abuelita grumbles something about how I always try to make her use English, but passes me a plate of empanadas nonetheless. I reach for the French press beside Marco’s plate, plucking up the last of the coffee before he snatches it.
I pour the dark-roast into the mug waiting at my place and nod at our grandmother. “She needs to practice her English. Junior is quite insistent.”
“ Hombrecillo mucoso. Quiere inglés? Tengo una palabra en ingles —asshole.”
Marco smirks at Abuelita’s curse, but turns his keen eyes on me. While I scarf down half of my empanada, he asks, “He’s still giving her grief?”
The owners of the tailor shop below our apartment—a Colombian family like ours—recently handed the reins over to their third-generation grandson. Junior now insists that Abuelita only converse with customers in English. It wouldn’t bother me if he also held the young, single girls working there to the same standard.
Marco’s face says it all—he will gut Junior like a fish. As a newly-minted lawyer, though, I have other ideas. Legal ones.
“I’m monitoring it,” I murmur, sighing as Abuelita continues her diatribe… completely in Spanish, of course.
Marco shoves the rest of his empanada into his mouth and speaks around it. “You know you only have ten minutes, right?”
I down my remaining coffee in one gulp. “ Carajo .”
Wincing, I rush to my feet and hurry past Abuelita. Her thickly-accented voice chases me into my room. “At the back of your door, muneca . I put your dresses.”
“ On ,” Marco corrects gently. “On the back of the door.”
“Is what I said,” Abuelita tosses back, already returning to her stove.
Smiling to myself, I shut the hollow slab and find Abuelita’s latest offering—four handmade dresses, in an array of bright colors.
My heart gives a pang at the various hues. It would never occur to her that orange or hot pink would not be appropriate for my new job. She simply chooses shades she knows I love.
Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I select the most acceptable of the bunch—a dark, berry red. Long-sleeved, with a square neckline and a slit up the back, it toes the line between professional and provocative... maybe a little too closely.
I step into it anyway. A woman with a straighter figure could easily get away with any of these dresses.
And that pisses me off.
Out of spite, I eschew my usual nude sling-backs for a matching pair of dark-red platform heels and clasp an eye-catching gold chain around my throat. One look in the mirror tells me I’m probably a smidge over the line…
But I’ve never been one to do things in half-measures.
When I step back into the kitchen, Marco examines my outfit with wary eyes. “That? For work?”
“So women with certain body types have to dress differently than other women?” I shoot back. “For what possible purpose? In order to avoid breaking men’s fragile grasp on basic human decency? Anyone who doesn’t approve of me wearing this dress because I have an ass can fight me.”
Marco pours a fresh round of coffee, snagging paper cups off the top of the yellowed refrigerator. He smirks as he offers me one while holding up his other hand in surrender. “All right, prima . Consider my question withdrawn.”
With a shrug of his massive shoulders, he slips a black jacket over his equally dark button-down. “I just wondered if there is some sort of dress code inside the office. Grayson just wants me in basic black suits.”
Marco gets a lot of face-time with our boss. They’re on a first-name basis and everything.
It might annoy me, if Marco wasn’t the one who slipped my resume to the CEO of Stryker & Sons in the first place.
Carrying a ball of gold fabric under her arm, Abuelita shuffles back down the hall. “Wear with this,” she tells me. “Matchings.”
“Match es ,” Marco and I both amend.
Abuelita places the flashy coat in my arms and pinches both of our cheeks as she hobbles between us. “Is what I said.”
Today calls for the largest of the company’s luxury SUVs, apparently. I follow Marco to the matte white car, stepping up into the passenger seat as he takes the driver’s.
The decadent scent of leather mingles with the pungent aroma of our coffees. I sit back against the plush interior, sighing. “What’s on your agenda today?”
Marco shakes his head, gazing impassively out the front windshield as he merges us into traffic. “Nice try.”
The Strykers’ schedule is a closely-guarded secret, even for employees. In my two weeks at the company, I’ve learned that meetings with the company’s CEO often don’t appear on our calendars until the day of—and, usually, they don’t mention him by name.
“Whose side are you on?” I demand, only half-kidding.
He shoots me a stern primo mayor look. “The side of both of us keeping our jobs.”
I fold my arms and sigh, unable to argue with that logic. I have to admit, I admire his devotion. I know it’s a rare trait… especially for men.
My cousin truly makes an ideal security director. Steadfast as can be, he combines muscled strength, sharp eyes, and a quick mind into one neat package.
When he started working for Mr. Stryker, the position wasn’t all that prestigious. But as his father edged into retirement, Grayson Stryker took over the role of CEO for their family’s illustrious development firm. Marco’s job altered accordingly, and he went from acting as a chauffeur for a trust-fund-baby/college student, to directing security and transportation for an entire company.
The scope of his influence still stuns me. When he suggested giving my information to Mr. Stryker, I only agreed because I figured it couldn’t hurt. I never expect Mr. Stryker to personally call me in for an interview and give me the last in-house junior counsel position in his legal department.
According to Marco, such personal attention to detail is typical for our boss. He often remarks on the young CEO’s noble character, and convinced me to take the position by detailing how good Mr. Stryker is to his employees.
So far, I’m impressed. The staff seems happy, the pay is highly competitive, and personal time is strictly enforced. The office is always spotless, calm, and humming with industrious energy. On the handful of occasions I’ve met Mr. Stryker, he more than returns the respect others afford him.
I nudge Marco’s elbow with mine. “Thanks again for hooking me up.”
He smiles broadly, reminding me why all the girls in our barrio constantly crushed on him growing up. “You deserved the job,” he tells me. “Top of your class at NYU Law? And he wanted someone bilingual. Frankly, I think they’re lucky to have you. Though I did wonder why you suddenly changed your mind about corporate law.”
The answer is simple, but the word feels bitter in my mouth.
Money .
“Immigration reform is still my passion,” I murmur instead, watching our neighborhood disappear behind us as we descend into the Queens-Midtown tunnel.
Darkness engulfs the car, so I get away with a half-truth. “It’s prudent to cultivate a diverse resume. Five years with Stryker should give me enough experience in corporate law to lend some credibility when I turn to non-profit work.”
And it will give me enough cash to save Mami .
Marco’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. “I guess that makes sense.” He gestures to my new dress. “Abuelita’s coming along, then?”
Our grandmother hates that I sold out and took a corporate job. We fought about it constantly over the holidays, right up until the morning of my first day at Stryker & Sons… when I found a brand-new, hand-stitched navy suit hanging on our fridge.
Abuelita simply shrugged, like she had no clue where the outfit came from, and muttered, “Eh, something to wear,” in Spanish. We haven’t spoken about it since.
I wonder if she changed her tune because of my first paycheck. The signing bonus alone was almost five figures—enough to pay our rent, all our bills, a few debts, and leave plenty for me to tuck away in my new savings account.
It will only take a handful of months for that account to hold enough to hire an expert immigration attorney to get my mother her long-awaited Green Card.
As much as Abuelita loathes the “greedy bastards” who run Manhattan, she’s always been a pragmatic woman. She’s forgiven me, now that she understands why I chose to compromise my morals.
“She saw our bank account and bought steak to make this weekend,” I tell Marco, sighing. “I think that’s about as close as I’m going to get to her admitting I was right.”
Marco turns to me as we clear the tunnel and cold winter light fills the car. “Abuelita’s making steak?”
I have to laugh at his expression. “And ceviche. Sunday after church.”
He groans. “So we have to go to church to get the food? Diabolical.”
He’s right. Abuelita is a woman with a plan.
I come by it honestly.