**Efrain

“I can’t believe we’re paying this much for some b*tch,” I grumbled as my father and I stood in the abandoned parking ramp in front of a sleek, black BMW. Six bodyguards were fanned out around them, looking rather out of place wearing suits and sunglasses on a hot Miami night.

“Shut up,” my thrice-cursed father said. “She’s not ‘some b*tch. She’s Mateo Castilas’s daughter. That alone makes her worth every penny.”

I huffed in ...