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When we arrive, the cafeteria is alive with chatter and the clinking of silverware against plates, filled with the aroma of various foods. We select our meals, and I pick the Neapolitan pasta at Lucia’s recommendation, trusting her judgment. Lucia waves at two girls sitting at a corner table before leading me over, her steps confident and sure.
“Maeve, Emily—this is Camila,” she introduces me, gesturing to each girl.
Maeve’s golden hair glimmers in the sunlight pouring through the windows, casting a warm glow over her features. Her green eyes sparkle with mischief as she extends a hand in greeting, and her smile is infectious.
Emily offers a nod that is strong and warm, her posture straight and confident. “So, Camila. What kind of family are you from?” She flicks her long brown hair over her shoulder, the motion fluid and practiced.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I’m from Mexico. My family is the Aguilars.”
Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of recognition passing over her face. “I’ve heard of you guys. Your father is renowned for his ruthlessness.”
I wouldn’t exactly know. My father rarely sees me or my mother; his presence in our lives is more of a shadow than a constant. They’re practically separated even if they are officially still married, the distance between them vast and unbridgeable. He’s too busy with cartel business to pay me any attention, focusing solely on power and wealth.
“Out of the three of us, I’m the only one who isn’t part of a mafia family,” she says.
Maeve rolls her eyes. The gesture is exaggerated and playful. “Your dad might as well be. Most of his money wasn’t made legitimately, and you know it.”
Emily glares at her, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Maeve and Emily’s banter strikes a familiar chord, reminding me of my siblings and me squabbling over dinner back home. The interaction is easy and familiar. Maeve leans forward, her eyes alight with a spark of mischief dancing in their depths.
“Emily, you can’t just pretend your dad is a saint. We all know Chicago’s elite have their secrets.”
Emily’s lips curve into a smirk, the expression both amused and slightly dangerous. “Secrets, sure. But not bodies buried in the backyard.”
Lucia’s hand finds mine under the table, reassuringly squeezing it, her touch warm and comforting. “Ignore them,” she whispers, her breath tickling my ear. “They’re like this all the time but thick as thieves.”
I nod, trying to focus on Lucia’s words rather than the heat rising to my cheeks at the mention of buried bodies, a topic that hits a little too close to home. It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with the concept; it’s something we don’t talk about openly in my family, the dark underbelly of our business kept hidden from view.
“We’ve all got our dramas,” Lucia says, her tone light and casual as if discussing the weather.
Maeve snorts, the sound inelegant but somehow endearing. “Dramas? More like soap operas with us.” She gestures between herself and Emily.
I can’t help but let out a small laugh, finding comfort in their ease with each other despite the sharpness of their words and the way they can poke and prod at each other’s vulnerabilities without causing real harm. They remind me of home in a way that soothes and stings—a reminder of what I’m missing.
“So, Camila,” Maeve turns to me, her expression softening. “What brings you to Crystal Lake?”
Before I can answer, Emily chimes in, her voice carrying a note of understanding. “Apart from family expectations?”
I hesitate momentarily before deciding on honesty; after all, they’ve shared their stories. “That’s the only reason,” I admit. “And my mother thought it would be good for me to get an education outside of Mexico.”
Maeve nods thoughtfully while Emily watches me intently.
“Well, you’re here now,” Lucia says cheerfully, “which means you’re part of our little group.”
The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch break and our cue to head to our next class. We gather our things and walk toward the exit of the cafeteria together. Suddenly, someone barrels into me hard, almost knocking me to the floor.
“Shit, sorry. I didn’t see you there,” a deep voice drawls.
The collision sends a jolt through my body, and I stumble, bracing for the fall. But a strong arm slips around my waist, steadying me before I can hit the ground. I look up, my breath catching at the sight of the man who caught me. His dark hair is swept back and he has a sharp jawline that clenches slightly when our eyes connect. “I’m so sorry,” he breathes.
“No harm done,” I manage to say, finding my footing. His arm lingers around my waist for a moment longer than necessary before he lets go and steps back to give me space.
He smirks, and something about his smile feels dangerous yet thrilling. “I’m glad you’re okay. I would’ve felt terrible if you’d been hurt by me.”
I nod, brushing off my skirt, feeling his gaze follow the motion. “It’s fine, really.”
He tilts his head, assessing me with a curiosity that flutters my stomach. “I haven’t seen you around before. You new here?”
