On my nineteenth birthday, after I’d been working with him for almost a year, my dad took me out to celebrate. We had dinner on the Riverwalk, just the two of us, and after, he took me to a tattoo parlor. “What’s this about? Tell me we’re not getting father-daughter tattoos,” I teased. “Nah, this is way more important than that. You can’t be a sworn-in member as a woman, but you’re a part of Los Zares as much as any of us. It’s time we let people know. By giving you our mark, no one will ever f**k with you. You’ll officially be under our protection.” My father wanted me to be a part of his club. A part of his life. It was so much more than any of the token outings or birthday gifts I’d received before. It felt like the first time he was truly proud of me. Proud to call me his daughter. My
