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“Leave her alone,” Bridget says. “It’s hard enough being on assignment and having women disappearing around you while researching a trafficker without getting teased.”
God bless Bridget. Still, my other three siblings won’t be put off with an admonishment. They’re evaluating me now. Closely. Which means they require an answer.
What did Tony say about giving some truth? I sigh. “I’m having a difficult time finding my footing in this role, and it doesn’t help that Sean is cute.Verycute.”
“Uh oh,” Gracie says “Stay clear of any complications. You know how that turns out for this family.”
I do. Well, I know how badly it turned out for Gracie, whose former lover took everything that mattered from her—specifically her son—after finding out about our family.
“Not to worry,” I tell my siblings, feeling on safer ground now that I’ve admitted the truth. “I take this mission as seriously as Justice does. I will not fail these women. All of you know that much about me.”
Each of my beloved siblings nods in respect of this truth. Not only are we a family, we’re a team. All of us have worked years to see this operation to this point. We will likely work another year before the final push.
It matters to us more than anything. All here have been rescued in one way or another. All here have given their lives to The Guild in place of any life outside it. And that makes us one, connected in a way that no one will ever be able to come between.
7
DADA
The street on which I find Sean’s apartment is shadowed and rundown—the exact place one would expect to find a document forger with a list of shady clients. Sean continues to impress me with what he’s managed to do here as someone with no training. Still, excluding his fighting prowess, in many ways he’s unequipped to deal with men as dangerous as Walid, and that’s why Sean needs me.
With my tutelage, he’ll be an unparalleled informant. But first, I need to do my own recon on him, find out what I can from his apartment while he’s out. Perhaps, I can gain insight on how best to convince Sean to align with me. Since he’s visiting the soup kitchen today, it’s the perfect time to do my research.
I enter the three-story, white plaster building, smothering a yawn. Nun hours suck. The worst part is this city has so much to offer—museums, mole, fabulous restaurants, mezcal, clubs, and glorious sunshine that calls for a bikini.
It’s all I can do to bend the rules enough to investigate without causing a stir with the other nuns who have no idea why I’m here. I’ve noticed more than one sidelong glance aimed at me as I shirk more and more responsibilities.
No one said undercover work made you popular.
The corridor inside Sean’s apartment building smells of the dusty wooden stairwell, is dimly lit, and unexpectedly cool. Avoiding the stairs, I make my way down the hall to a pitted door marked by a sign that readsGerente. Manager.
I rap lightly and after a few moments waiting, the door swings open. The smell of recently cooked peppers drifts out, and I look down at an elderly Mexican woman with silver hair and brown eyes, sitting in a wheelchair.
“Hello. My name is Sister Dee. Juan said you might be in need of some services, so I came to ask if there’s anything I can do to help.”
And to find out what you know about Juan AKA Sean.
The woman smiles up at me. “Hola, mi nombre es Sylvia.”
Wheeling herself backward, Sylvia beckons me inside.
I follow her through a small apartment with many colorful Día de las Muertes figurines in different-sized glass cases and numerous bookshelves filled with books lining the walls.
She leads me into a pastel pink kitchen with lovely terra-cotta tiles.
I like her. Yes, that’s based entirely on her decorating choices, ¿pero que mas necesito?
“¿Bebe cafés?” Sylvia asks.
I tell her I do drink coffee, and I notice the entire kitchen has been designed so she can work from her wheelchair.
I sit at the table, as there isn’t a lot of operating space to begin with and the wheelchair makes it more so.
She fills a teapot, then turns a knob on the stovetop to heat the water. Grabbing the Café Bustelo and two cups, she tells me, “Juan is such a good boy.”
I don’t point out that he’s a man because I’m sure, to Sylvia, a thirty-five-year-old manisa boy. At thirty-six, I feel I’ve earned the right to call myself a woman, but I don’t balk when Momma calls me one of her girls. “How nice to have him here. You must get lonely.”
Sylvia shakes her head. “Ay, no. I’m not alone, because my son is here.”
