Chapter 7
SEVEN
He’s not coming.
Julia stood stiffly, arms locked around herself, her gaze fixed on the narrow gap in her bedroom curtains. Through the sheer fabric, she could see the front gate and the stretch of concrete bathed in the glow of the security lights.
Every time headlights flickered through the trees, her breath hitched, her stomach coiling tight. But none had turned down her drive.
It was after nine. He wasn’t coming.
“Julia.”
A light tug on her arm. She barely registered it, her eyes locked on another pair of approaching headlights. They slowed as they neared the gate. Her pulse tripped. Panic warred with excitement. Now that he was here, she didn’t want him to be. What had she been thinking—
“Julia.”
Her mother’s voice, sharp and insistent. The tone she used when correcting Julia’s posture mid-routine. Julia wrenched her eyes away from the window.
“Stand up straight. Colette is trying to get the fit right in the shoulders.”
Julia blinked at the seamstress, who had been gently trying to pry her arms apart.
“Oh. Sorry,” she murmured, relaxing her posture.
Colette gave a small nod and resumed her work, pinning the delicate fabric into place. Julia’s attention darted back to the window just in time to see the headlights continue past the gate.
She exhaled, the tension draining from her limbs. Then, with effort, she kept herself from slumping again.
From the bed, Natalie scrolled idly through her phone, propped on one elbow in that casually perfect way she always managed.
Every inch of her looked like it belonged on a stage or in a perfume ad—long, lean legs, willowy arms, a swanlike neck.
Even her feet had those high, elegant arches ballet teachers swooned over.
Natalie had been born for ballet. She looked like she’d been sculpted for the stage.
Julia had not.
She was taller, but it was the wrong kind of tall. Her height lived in her torso, not her legs, throwing off her lines in every arabesque. Flat feet, a head a shade too big for her frame, and the most unforgivable offense in ballet: hips. Real ones.
She’d been on a diet since she was twelve.
Not because anyone had told her outright, but because they didn’t need to.
Her mother’s carefully worded suggestions—Maybe skip the bread this week, love.
Let’s try some lemon water in the mornings—were enough.
And Natalie, with her delicate appetite and natural thinness, had been the gold standard.
Always the example. Always the blueprint.
The seamstress finished her work and stepped back.
Julia turned to the full-length mirror, catching herself in the custom Valentino bridesmaid dress for the first time. Blush pink, sweetheart neckline, mermaid hem. It was objectively stunning. She looked…fine. Pretty, even. But she still felt like a draft version of someone else’s design.
From the bed, Natalie looked up and grinned. “You’re gonna pull a Pippa Middleton on me in that.”
Julia managed a tight smile. Lately, everything Natalie said felt dipped in something sticky-sweet.
Or maybe she was just becoming bitter.
Their mother appeared behind her, fussing with the fabric around Julia’s thighs.
“Hmm,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly. That one sound, that slight purse of her lips, said more than words ever could.
Julia went still, spine straightening instinctively.
Her mother nodded toward Colette. “Thank you for coming so late. There’s still so much to do, and the wedding is only two weeks away…”
Julia tuned her out, eyes flicking back to the window. Nothing. No headlights.
The comment about the dress barely registered—she’d heard worse from her mother—but the thought of Daniel standing her up stung far more.
Then she heard it.
A low rumble. Distant but growing. Headlights swept around the bend.
They slowed. Stopped. Right across from her gate.
Holy crap. He’s here.
Julia flailed behind her, reaching for the zipper.
After a few seconds of struggling, a hand behind came to her rescue. Her sister helped peel it off her, then scooped up the gown. “Try not to let her get to you,” she said quietly. “She’s just impossible to please sometimes.”
Julia paused in pulling her top over her head.
For a moment she thought she’d misheard, because Natalie never spoke of their mother.
Neither of them did. Not of endless early morning starts or untold number of hours they’d committed to ballet since they could walk.
Or the sacrifices, the pain, the diets, the injuries.
They’d never commiserated together because neither wanted the other to think was weaker.
Their mother had raised them as rivals and not sisters.
She hesitated, half-tempted to say something. Instead, she forced a smile. “The dress is perfect. Everyone’s going to be looking at you, anyway.”
Their mother clapped her hands once, briskly. “Colette, we’ll finish the hem tomorrow. Natalie, come with me, we’ll check your fittings in my room.”
Natalie rolled her eyes but obeyed, gathering her phone as she slid off the bed. A moment later the door clicked shut behind them, leaving Julia alone. The muffled rise and fall of their voices drifted down the hall, then faded.
Julia seized her chance. She grabbed her bag and bolted.
By the time she reached the front door, her heart was hammering.
She half-expected Daniel to be waiting on the doorstep, but he hadn’t ventured up the drive.
The engine was still idling, its low growl vibrating through the night.
Like he wasn’t sure he should be here. Like he, too, had wondered if he’d be stood up.
She quickened her pace, and the car came into view.
It was sleek and aggressive. Six angry-looking grilles glared from between the headlights. Angled shark gills cut into the fenders. A massive hood scoop sat like an open mouth, ready to swallow the road whole. The thing had the subtlety of a sucker punch.
Daniel got out and rounded the car to open the passenger door for her.
Julia wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt and climbed in.
The interior was all gleaming black vinyl and polished wood grain. A crucifix dangled from the rearview mirror, swaying with the engine’s vibrations.
Daniel slid back behind the wheel, shutting the door behind him.
“So,” he said, watching her reaction. “What do you think?”
She stared at the car. Then at him.
“It’s hideous,” she said at last.
Daniel grinned. “I knew you’d like her.”
* * *
They left behind the pristine estates and tree-lined streets of Lake Forest, heading south. The transition was stark—one moment, the world was manicured golf courses and gated driveways, the next, it was the steady hum of the Edens Expressway, stretching like a vein into the heart of Chicago.
Julia sat back in the seat, watching as the landscape shifted from suburban affluence to urban sprawl. The rhythmic clatter of 'L' trains overhead blended with the distant bass of car speakers from the traffic around them.
She glanced at Daniel, his hands steady on the wheel, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights.
He took an exit just past Chinatown, weaving through the narrow streets of Back of the Yards.
Aged brick buildings, some with boarded-up windows, stood side by side with vibrant murals and lively taquerias.
Streetlights flickered, barely illuminating the figures lingering near shuttered businesses.
This was a city within a city, a place where the undocumented, the unseen, and the forgotten carved out a life.
Julia shifted in her seat. "So, what exactly are we doing tonight?"
Daniel glanced at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Ever been to a mercado?"
She frowned slightly. "Like a market?"
"Sort of," he said, cryptic. "But maybe not the kind you're thinking of."
After turning onto 47th Street, he navigated a series of alleys until they pulled up beside an unmarked warehouse, its entrance illuminated by a single bulb. Somewhere in the distance, the wail of a siren echoed.
He killed the engine and turned to Julia, his expression unreadable. "Ready?"
* * *
Daniel knocked twice, then three more times. A metal slot in the door slid open, revealing shadowed eyes. A hushed exchange in rapid Spanish followed, too quick for her to catch more than a word or two.
A latch clicked. The door swung inward, releasing a rush of heavy, humid air thick with the scent of grilled meat, gasoline, and something acrid—burnt sugar? Plastic? Her stomach tightened. This was not the kind of place you found on a travel itinerary.
Daniel stepped inside after her without hesitation, placing a light touch on her lower back. The heat of his palm burned through her shirt. She exhaled and moved forward.
Inside, a makeshift maze of tarps and rusted steel beams formed a tunnel, crammed with knockoff sneakers, bootleg liquor, and counterfeit designer bags.
Music throbbed from crackling speakers. Conversations hummed around her, fast and low, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional sharp curse.
To her left, a man twirled a knife between his tattooed fingers, his stall lined with an array of gleaming blades. A woman in a cropped hoodie braided a little girl’s hair while another customer handed over cash for a trim.
Julia turned, taking it all in, pulse thrumming beneath her skin.
"How do you even find a place like this?" she asked, keeping her voice casual.
Daniel’s response was just as smooth. "You don’t. That’s the whole point."
He moved through the market like he belonged there, nodding at a few familiar faces, ignoring others.
A vendor flashed a gold chain in his direction; Daniel dismissed him with a flick of his fingers.
Further down, a group of men huddled around an old sedan, cash exchanging hands in a quick, quiet rhythm.
Then—
"?Hermano! About time."