Page 2 of Devil's Bride

My father was a powerful man and not one who should ever be crossed. Unless you had a death wish.

So far, my day had been shit. The alarm had decided to welcome me by not sounding off. That had left me with five minutes to take a shower and even less time to dress. I should have gone back to bed when I’d dumped a full cup of coffee on my white blouse.

At least the burn marks had been kept to a minimum.

I’d also made the mistake of leaving my clothes in my suitcases and the suit I’d planned on wearing looked as if I’d been involved in cage fighting. I had no idea how I’d managed to rip the jacket when jerking it from the container, but my eyes had still been lost in a fog.

However, somehow I’d raced out the door with my heels in my hand, looking somewhat like a corporate mogul. If there was one thing my father had never tolerated, it was being late. I’d seen his temper when that happened.

While I’d been the starry-eyed girl who’d dreamt of being an attorney as long as I could remember and had been determined to shove the bad guys in the slammer, the job I’d accepted was entirely different. Now I’d be juggling what few contracts my father had in place since his clients were less than scrutable and keeping the thugs he’d employed out of the very slammer I’d once dreamed of filling.

Oh, the irony was lost in an Alanis Morrissette song.

At least I’d gotten here on time thanks to the bodyguard’s lead foot. I guess I was still able to look at the bright side of things.

After that, the day had been a crapshoot. The paperwork was in shambles, not a single signed contract to be found.

There was no alphabetization.

There was no copy paper.

The printer was out of ink if it even worked.

There was no music to drown out the laughter from outside my door.

But at least there was a fully stocked bar and at this point, the bottle of whiskey I’d been eyeing for a couple of hours was looking better and better.

I’d done my best to go through the few files on the computer, becoming grouchier the more time I’d spent. There were employees sitting right outside the door, none of whom appeared busy. I’d gotten up more than once to check I hadn’t been hallucinating. I had no idea what they were working on.

All I’d witnessed was them walking back and forth to the breakroom where there were jugs of juice, vats of coffee, and very sad examples of Spanish donuts. Yet they were all happy, busy bees. Their behavior made me wonder if they didn’t keep flasks of booze in their desks. Did they even work for their paycheck or was their appearance simply designed to keep the police off their tails?

What had happened to good old-fashioned bribery?

Great. I’d been sitting in the office for less than eight hours and I was already thinking like a gangster. Why, oh, why had I agreed to this?

The light knocks on the door wiped the smile from my face. Without waiting for me to answer, the door was swung open, my new assistant walking in with a group of papers in his hand.

“Ms. Morales. I have a few contracts for you to sign.”

Contracts? Really? Maybe the day was looking up. Why was it my father had a penchant for hiring men with huge necks?

His English was flawless, a requirement of my father’s. I’d only been in the United States for five years. It wasn’t as if I’d forgotten my native language. However, I’d determined I’d do anything to appease my father upon my return.

“You do realize I’m not actually on the clock yet.” I’d been set to start the next day, but again, Papa had convinced me to pop into the office.

On time.

He looked at his watch, thoroughly confused as to use of the American slang and my attempt to make a bad joke. He’d even scowled when I’d walked in. “I…”

“It’s nothing. Just drop them on my desk.”

“Your father called. He asked me to remind you of your party.” Rodolpho stepped forward, his training evident when he scanned the perimeter of my new office. Did he honestly think assassins would risk being seen, their lives likely cut short by scaling a twenty-five-story building? Even if they did, the bulletproof glass would shatter their dreams of glory.

I groaned. The fabulous party my father had orchestrated, not requesting but commanding me to be there. He’d invited everyone who was anyone important in town, determined to announce my hiring in fashion. At least he’d accepted my suggestion of having the illustrious event at a restaurant instead of filling the house with hundreds of people sizing up the art and betting on how much money my father made.

“Yes, I know. I’ll get changed.”

I’d barely talked to the hitman covering as a qualified assistant. I’d only given his resume a brief onceover. His hire hadn’t been my decision to make. God, it would take me weeks to remember the Spanish slang. My father would say I’d become far too Americanized.

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