1. Lucia

CHAPTER 1

Lucia

G rief is the first thing I remember.

It's odd because most kids remember positive, happy things—learning how to ride a bike, playing with their siblings, feeling their mother's warmth. But I never got to experience that last one. By the time I turned three, my mother was gone, and all I had were a distant father and a sister who would have done anything to protect me.

My familial situation went a long way in developing my character. I was a child in an environment filled with strong personalities. Mostly murderous ones. When you grow up with a powerful father who's the head of a crime syndicate, you end up believing nothing is impossible for you. All I needed to do was ask a capo to commit murder for me and they would have done it without hesitation. Thankfully, I also grew up with a strong moral compass.

That being said, power corrupts. And while I might not have the talent for murder, I do have the talent for taking down whoever stands in my way.

The taco practically melts in my mouth once I take a bite, savoring the burst of flavors that dance on my tongue. The seasoned meat, the crisp lettuce, the fresh salsa—it's like a symphony in my mouth. I swear, these tacos are the best thing in the city, and I eat one every single day without fail. A few other people on the sidewalk, men and women alike, cast me weird looks when I moan loudly, drawing attention. I give them dirty looks in return.

Perverts. A girl can't have a foodgasm without people getting dirty thoughts.

"You're really good for my ego, cari?o. " The old man behind the counter of the truck chuckles, his wrinkled face breaking into a warm smile. "Every day you eat a taco like it's the best thing you've ever eaten."

"It is the best thing I've ever eaten, Se?or Rivera," I say point blank with a grin, wiping a bit of sauce from the corner of my mouth.

"You always flatter me," he replies, his voice thick with a Spanish accent. "But it's just a simple taco."

"Simple? No way! You've got magic hands," I insist, taking another bite. "One of these days maybe you'll sell me the recipe."

"I'd give it to you for free if I thought you'd put it to good use," he counters.

I pout, sighing softly, "Touché."

He knows just as well as I do that I'm absolutely useless in a kitchen and would be unable to whip up a half-decent taco on my own, even with a recipe as good as his.

"One of these days I'll learn how to cook, you'll see," I state.

He smiles. "I await that day with bated breath, Lucia."

I lean against the side of the truck, enjoying the midday sun as I munch on my taco. The little food truck, painted a bright, cheerful yellow, has become my lunchtime sanctuary. It's always parked in the same spot, right on the corner, and I've made it my mission to be here every day.

"How's business today?" I ask between bites.

"A little slow, as you can see," Mr. Rivera says, gesturing with his hand toward the front of the truck, which is devoid of customers. "You're my most loyal customer, cari?o . I'd probably go out of business if it weren't for you."

"People just don't know a good thing," I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

Then again, this particular neighborhood, while busy, is like the hotspot for food trucks of various kinds. From hotdogs to ice cream to tamales, there's a truck for nearly every type of fast food. It would do Mr. Rivera some good to move his truck somewhere else, but I'd probably go crazy if he did.

He might not admit it, but I know one of the reasons he's staying in this neighborhood is for me. The old man and I have built a friendship over the past two years. And I hate change so much. If he left, I'd probably starve every day for lunch instead of finding somewhere else to eat.

"I always tell you, Mr. Rivera. Quit the truck and come be my personal chef. You know I'll treat you right," I say, shooting him a wink.

He laughs, the sound deep and comforting. "If I ever decide to take you up on that offer, you'll know immediately."

"Good. You'd better," I tell him.

I'm about to take another bite when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. It's a call from work. I hesitate for a moment, torn between the last delicious bite of my taco and whatever crisis is brewing on the other end of the line.

With a sigh, I answer the call. "Hello?"

"Ms. Kent, we've got an emergency," says the voice on the other end, sounding tense. "We need you back at the office, now."

"I'll be there in ten minutes," I tell Simone, my heart sinking a little at the thought of leaving my little bubble here at the food truck.

My lunch break is the only time I'm ever away from the fast-paced insanity of my job. It wasn't always this crazy. A couple of months ago, I was an employee with normal hours, and I could get in a good night's sleep most days. Since I got promoted to marketing executive, it feels like I haven't had a moment's peace.

Everyone wants a promotion without realizing they're being led a step closer to deteriorating mental health.

"I've gotta go, Mr. Rivera," I say to the old man upon hanging up the call. "You've got the rest of the tacos packed up, right?"

I feel bad that the rest of the staff couldn't go on their own lunch breaks due to the big shoot currently happening at work, so I promised to bring some food back.

"Of course I do," he says, reaching for a bag filled with tacos and handing them to me. "Enjoy the rest of your day, cari?o ."

"You and I both know I won't. See you tomorrow. And don't you dare run out of tacos until I get here," I say, offering him a smile and a wave.

"I would never, Lucia," he says solemnly, waving as I leave.

I practically run across the street to my office five minutes from Mr. Rivera's truck. The towering glass building is all sharp edges and polished surfaces, just like the fashion company it houses. I've built my career here and made a name for myself all in a short time. No one has ever climbed the ladder as fast as I did. Which is why on most days, all I can think about is how much it's going to hurt if I ever fall.

I'm not going to let that happen, though.

I hurry inside, the familiar buzz of the lobby washing over me as I make my way to the elevator. An emergency is the last thing I need today, especially with the photoshoot happening. When the elevator doors open, I step out into the chaos of the office. People are rushing around, phones are ringing.

The fashion industry has to be the most fast-paced, high-stakes environment I've ever experienced. I love it. Usually, a thrill passes through me as soon as I step into the eye of the storm. Right now, though, all I can think about is the shoot happening on the terrace.

Someone tries to wave me over but I ignore him in favor of getting to the roof. I head over to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time before bursting out onto the rooftop, and immediately, I can tell something's wrong. The setup is beautiful—lush plants, elegant furniture, the perfect backdrop for a cover shoot—but the energy is all wrong. The model, a rising star with a classic, sophisticated beauty, is standing off to the side, arms crossed and looking uncomfortable. And in the middle of it all is Jonathan, the photographer, barking orders at everyone in that slimy tone of his.

Simone approaches as soon as she spots me.

"What's going on?" I ask her in a low tone.

She makes a noise of frustration before she informs me what has happened in the thirty minutes I've been away. "Apparently, Jonathan decided that the outfit you selected for the model wasn't suitable for the aesthetics of the shoot."

My jaw tightens and tension flows through me.

"He did what?" I grit out.

"I've been trying to explain to him that he has no right to make that call but he won't listen to me."

"Oh, he'll listen to me," I state, my gaze narrowing onto the short, stocky man in a pale impression of a Parisian outfit.

It screams "trying too hard to be a fashion icon but landing in the discount bin instead." He's lucky he has talent when it comes to photography, but his personality could use loads of work. Every time I've had the misfortune of working with him in the past two years, we've butted heads. It's pretty clear he doesn't respect me or my ability to do my work. In his opinion, I'm too young. He completely disregards the fact that I wouldn't have gotten to this position if I was incapable of doing my fucking job.

"Ah, Lucia. I see you finally decided to rejoin us. Where'd you slink off to?" he asks when I walk over to him.

"Jonathan," I begin, trying my hardest to keep my tone even, "what's going on?"

I ignore his comment about me leaving. Maybe it wasn't the most ideal move, but my lunch breaks are sacred. I never let anything disturb them. If he has a problem with that, then too bad.

"I made a few adjustments. The model's outfit needs some enhancement," he says on a shrug.

My eyes meet those of one of the assistants milling about. "Show me the outfit," I request.

They do so immediately, lifting a new tulle pink dress with a plunging neckline and a hem that's way too short for what we're going for. It's far too revealing, especially considering the fact that the model, Elara, is known for having a clean image. No wonder she looks uncomfortable.

I take a deep breath. "That's not what we discussed, Jonathan. The outfit was chosen specifically for this shoot to align with the magazine's image."

He shrugs, clearly unfazed. "I just thought it could use a little more edge. You know, something that pops."

"This isn't about what you think ‘pops,'" I say, my voice sharp now. "It's about the vision we agreed on, the image we want to project."

He rolls his dark eyes, clearly not taking me seriously. "Oh, come on, Lucia. You're overreacting. It's just a dress."

"No," I say, stepping closer, my tone leaving no room for argument, "I'm not overreacting. This is my shoot, and I'm the one in charge. You don't get to make these kinds of decisions on a whim. You're here to take the photos, not to dictate how our models should dress."

There's a brief silence as the words sink in. I can see the model relax a little, her arms uncrossing, and the rest of the crew seems to be holding their breath.

Jonathan looks like he wants to argue, but something in my expression must warn him off. He huffs and turns away, muttering under his breath, but he doesn't push it further.

I turn to the model, giving her a reassuring smile. "We're going back to the original outfit. It was perfect, and you're going to look amazing."

She smiles back, clearly relieved. "Thank you, Lucia."

I nod, already turning to the crew to get things back on track. "Alright, everyone, let's get moving. We've got a cover to shoot. Oh, and I brought tacos for everyone. You can help yourselves to them, on the table. Except you, Jonathan," I say in a teasing voice.

Nearly everyone laughs. Jonathan even manages a small smile. The tension dissipates as I start directing the shoot. The team falls into place, the model changes back into the original outfit, and Jonathan, although he's still sulking a little, does his job. The rest of the shoot goes by without a hitch and I'm glad when it's finally over.

Simone follows me as I head downstairs to my office. She shuts the door behind us as I practically flop down onto my chair.

"One of these days, I'll shove the heel of my boots into Jonathan's shifty eyes," I mutter under my breath.

Simone still hears me, and her lips twitch as she settles down into the seat in front of me. "I'd pay to see that."

"How much are we talking?" I ask seriously, sitting up and clasping my hands together.

Money's my greatest motivation in life, a fact that nearly everyone around me knows. I didn't become the youngest executive manager at Haute Couture magazine for nothing. I crave success. My sister always says it's because I think I have to prove something to myself. Or maybe to her. Or our dead father. Or maybe to the entire world. I'm constantly working to ensure that no one ever underestimates me.

I can do anything I want to.

Simon shakes her head. "I was joking, Ms. Kent."

"I know." I grin. "So, what's up? How's the rest of my day looking?"

"You have a meeting with the other execs to finalize preparations for this month's publication. And then another meeting with Hans to try to convince him to give us the scoop on his upcoming collection."

"Oh, right. Did you look into him? He's not going to agree to work with us without a proper bribe," I say, my lips curling with distaste at the thought of the designer.

Like most designers, Hans is a diva. When you have talent like his, being a diva is excusable. Still, handling designers like him is one of the more annoying parts of my job. I have a notoriously short fuse, but I've been working hard to temper it. I've had to in the past few months.

"Yeah. I arranged for you two to have dinner at a trendy Chinese restaurant that just opened," she informs me.

My frown deepens. "I hate Chinese food, Simone."

I'm an enormously picky eater. It's one of my more endearing qualities. At least, I think it is. My sister would not agree with that statement considering my eating habits used to drive her crazy when I was younger.

"I know," she says sympathetically. "But Hans does, and we've got to make him happy if we want him to work with us."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter. "Anything else?"

I'm already dreading the dinner. Hans can be pretty unpleasant. This meeting is going to go one of two ways—either I charm his leather pants off, or I end up throwing my drink in his face by the end of it.

Fingers crossed.