Page 1 of Ruthless Vows

CHAPTER 1

Lucia

Grief 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,cariño.” 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, Señor 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,cariño. 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.

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