The celebration in the living room was the loudest it had been since they crossed the border into Mexico.
Ariana and Sunny had burst through the front door, their faces glowing with a rare, unburdened light.
"We got jobs!" they shouted in unison.
Melissa, perched on the sofa in her mandatory pink ensemble, offered a genuine smile. "I'm happy for both of you. Truly."
"What did you do all day, Melissa?" Sunny asked, tossing her keys onto the counter.
"Nothing much," Melissa lied smoothly, her mind flickering to the encrypted data she had spent hours scanning.
"Sleeping, video games. But never mind me. Sit. Tell me everything."
"I'll go first," Ariana chirped, practically vibrating.
"I landed a spot at one of the biggest car dealerships in the country. High-end, high-commission."
The girls cheered, the sound echoing off the sparsely furnished walls.
"And you, Sunny?" Melissa prompted.
"I'm at a five-star restaurant," Sunny said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
"And you'll never guess who owns it."
"Who?"
"The mysterious lady in the red dress," Ariana guessed, her eyebrows shooting up.
"Yes!" Sunny squealed like a teenager. "She's the owner and the head chef. I can't wait to work with her."
"Wait," Ariana leaned in, "have you fallen for her already? Love at first sight is a deadly eye disease, Sunny."
"I know," Sunny sighed, staring dreamily at the ceiling.
"I can't help it."
"Take it slow," Melissa warned, her protective instincts sharpening.
Bb "She's your boss now. And remember—not everyone is going to be accepting. Don't let your heart give us away."
The next morning was a whirlwind of frantic energy.
"Ariana! You're going to be late!" Sunny yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
"I'm ready! I'm ready!" Ariana scrambled down, adjusting her blazer.
They both made a break for the door until Melissa cleared her throat loudly.
"Ahem. Are you two forgetting something?"
"Oh, shit," Ariana hissed.
"Language," Sunny corrected automatically.
They both doubled back, planting quick, sisterly kisses on Melissa's cheeks before dashing out into their new lives.
Sunny arrived at the restaurant with a heart full of hope. This wasn't just a part-time gig in a string of nameless cities; this felt like a beginning.
She was greeted by Mariana, the assistant chef, whose warmth was an immediate relief.
"Good morning, Chef," Sunny said.
"Call me Mariana," the woman laughed. "And I love the hair. Is that white natural?"
"I wish," Sunny joked. "It's a recent change."
"Well, it suits you."
The lighthearted moment shattered when a voice like silk and gravel cut through the kitchen.
"Mariana, where are today's menus?"
It was Alejandra. She walked in with a gravity that seemed to slow time itself.
To Sunny, it felt as though an invisible fan was blowing, catching the strands of Alejandra's hair in perfect cinematic motion.
"In your office, Chef," Mariana replied.
Alejandra's eyes slid to Sunny. Recognition flashed there—sharp and dangerous.
"Good morning, um, Chef, I'm—" Sunny started.
"Mariana, who is this?" Alejandra cut her off, her voice devoid of the warmth Sunny had imagined.
"This is Sunny, the new hire we talked about."
"Very well," Alejandra said, her gaze lingering on Sunny for one uncomfortable second.
"She can handle the dishes."
As Alejandra vanished into her office, she felt a cold knot of suspicion. How did that girl get here? she wondered.
The club was one thing, but this? Is she a spy? A rookie mistake, or a calculated move? She resolved to keep her "new employee" on a very short leash.
In the kitchen, Sunny was handed a list by a server named Samuel.
"Chef wants these ingredients immediately. Here's the cash."
Sunny stared at the list of local seafood and poultry.
"Where am I supposed to get this? I'm a foreigner."
"I don't know," Samuel shrugged. "Use Google. Figure it out."
Sunny stepped out into the humid Mexican heat. She felt a prickle on the back of her neck—the sensation of being watched.
She ignored it, navigating a supermarket with a translation app and sheer desperation.
By the time she had acquired the live seafood and a very vocal live chicken, she was struggling.
Then she saw them. Two men, moving with the rhythmic precision of hunters.
Father's men? Her heart hammered against her ribs. She picked up her pace, but they broke into a run.
Sunny bolted, tripping over a curb and scraping her knee.
Gritting her teeth against the sting, she dove into a thick crowd of shoppers, using the chaos to vanish.
She hailed a taxi, her hands shaking as she clutched the bags of ingredients.
She didn't see Melissa watching from the shadows across the street.
Melissa followed the men to a derelict, malodorous house on the edge of the district.
She slipped inside, the scent of rot greeting her. Upstairs, a guard spotted her.
"Hey! You're not supposed to be—"
Melissa didn't let him finish. She moved like lightning, a precise strike to his temple sending him crashing to the floor.
"What was that?" a voice called from the end of the hall.
"Well," Melissa whispered to herself, "so much for stealth."
Three men rushed her with pipes and blades.
Melissa was a blur of controlled violence, taking them down with the efficiency of a machine. Then, a gunshot splintered the door frame next to her head.
"Where are you, bitch?" a man roared.
Melissa ducked into a side room. She reached for her waistband, then cursed. Sunny had hidden her guns, worried about "accidents."
She scanned the room, snatching a heavy hammer from a toolbox and a serrated knife from a table.
As the lead gunman stepped through the door, Melissa brought the hammer down on his skull. He staggered but didn't fall.
He swung a heavy fist, catching Melissa in the jaw and sending her sprawling.
He pinned her, pressing the cold barrel of a pistol to her forehead.
"Wait!" Melissa gasped, her voice suddenly small and innocent.
"Why are we fighting? I just wanted a better view of the city!"
The man sneered, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her toward the window to throw her out.
It was the opening she needed. Melissa drove the knife into his foot—once, twice, three times.
He screamed, collapsing. Melissa wrenched the gun from his hand and aimed it at his eyes.
"Who sent you?"
The man spat on her, laughing through the pain. He hissed something in a guttural tongue.
Russian.
"Who sent a Russian after us?" Melissa mused.
"You'll never know," he rasped in a thick accent.
"You're a pussy. You won't pull the trigger."
Melissa's expression went stone-cold. She shifted her aim and fired into his chest.
"Oops," she whispered into the smoke. "I was aiming for your heart. Guess we'll have to try again."
Ten minutes of "persuasion" later, Melissa walked out of the building into the fresh air.
She straightened her pink cardigan and wiped a fleck of blood from her cheek.
She had the information she needed, and the stalker was dead.
Back at the restaurant, Sunny stumbled into the kitchen, her knee bleeding and her clothes torn.
"Where have you been?" Mariana gasped, rushing to her.
"I got the ingredients," Sunny said, her voice faint.
She managed a weak smile as she handed over the bags. Then, the world began to tilt.
The fear of her father, the adrenaline of the chase, and the exhaustion finally won.
As her knees buckled, a pair of strong arms caught her. Through the haze, she saw Diego looking down at her with concern.
But in the back of her mind, all she could see was her father's shadow, closing in.
Sunny? Sunny, are you okay? Clara, get a chair, now!" Mariana's voice cut through the sudden silence of the kitchen like a serrated blade.
Clara scrambled to obey, sliding a wooden chair behind Sunny just as her strength gave out. Sunny sank into it, her breath coming in ragged hitches.
"What happened out there?" Diego asked, leaning over her with a furrowed brow, his shadow looming large over her trembling frame.
Sunny forced a weak, practiced smile, the kind she had used in three different countries to hide a thousand different fears.
"I... I must have missed my step. I promise, I'm alright. Just a bit clumsy."
"Inés, get her a glass of water," Mariana commanded, her eyes scanning Sunny's face with maternal concern.
"I'm fine, really," Sunny insisted, her voice small against the clatter of the kitchen.
"There's no need to bother yourselves over a little trip."
"Fine?" Mariana knelt slightly, pointing to Sunny's torn leggings.
"Look at your legs, child. You're covered in bruises. That wasn't just a 'missed step.'
Inés pressed a cold glass of water into Sunny's hand.
"You're looking pale, Sunny. Like you've seen a ghost. Should I go to the office? Should I tell the Chef?"
"No!" Sunny's response was too fast, too sharp. She gripped the glass until her knuckles turned as white as her hair.
"No, please. There's no need for that."
"If she can't handle a simple task, then I don't think she's fit for this kitchen."
The voice was like ice water down Sunny's spine.
Alejandra stood in the doorway of her office, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed with a clinical, unforgiving coldness.
She didn't look like a woman concerned for an employee; she looked like a judge delivering a verdict.
Sunny flinched, the weight of the "love-sick high schooler" persona she was supposed to be playing suddenly feeling like lead.
She looked down at her bruised knees, the image of the men chasing her through the supermarket still burned into her retinas.
"I'm sorry, Chef," Sunny whispered, her voice trembling as she forced herself to stand up, despite the ache in her limbs. "I'll do better next time. I promise."