CHAPTER 15
Learning the Hustle
The city had a rhythm—fast, ruthless, and indifferent. If I wanted to survive, I had to match its pace. No more illusions, no more softness. I had learned the hard way that life didn't hand out second chances, and if I wanted one, I had to take it myself.
I pulled my coat tighter around me as I walked through the crowded streets, my fingers numb from the cold. The neon lights flickered, reflecting off puddles on the cracked sidewalk. I had no money, no safety net, but I had something more valuable—determination. That, and an anger that burned deep enough to keep me warm.
"You look lost, sweetheart," a man with a cigarette hanging from his lips said, leaning against a graffiti-tagged wall.
I stopped and squared my shoulders. "Do I?" My voice was steady, but I could feel his eyes assessing me, weighing if I was prey or trouble.
"Depends. You looking for work?"
"What kind?" I asked, playing the game, keeping my face unreadable.
He smirked. "Not your type of work, I'm guessing." He exhaled smoke, watching me through the haze. "But if you have skills, there's a way to make money around here."
I had no intention of falling into a trap, but I needed information. I needed to learn how people like me—people who'd lost everything—clawed their way back up.
"Who should I talk to?" I asked, my voice was low and controlled.
He chuckled. "That depends. Are you willing to hustle, or are you just looking for handouts?"
My jaw tightened. "I don't do handouts."
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Check the bodega on 12th and Marshall. Ask for Rico. Tell him Slim sent you."
I committed the name to memory. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet," he said, flicking his cigarette to the ground. "Just don't get yourself killed, sweetheart."
---
The bodega smelled like stale bread and desperation. A couple of guys loitered near the back, speaking in low voices. I ignored them, walking straight to the counter.
"I'm looking for Rico."
The cashier, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, didn't react. "No Rico here."
"Slim sent me," I said, meeting her gaze.
She hesitated, then jerked her head toward the back. "Through the door."
I pushed past a curtain of beaded strings and entered a dimly lit room. A man sat behind a desk, counting a stack of bills. Rico. Late thirties, lean, with the sharp eyes of someone who didn't trust easily.
He didn't look up. "You don't belong here."
"I need work."
"And? That's not my problem."
"I learn fast," I pressed. "I work harder than anyone you've got. I just need a shot."
He finally looked at me, his expression unreadable. Then he laughed, shaking his head. "You got heart, I'll give you that. But heart doesn't mean shit in this world."
"I bet on myself," I said. "You should too."
His smirk faded. "Fine. You get one chance. Mess up, and you're done."
---
The hustle wasn't glamorous. It was long nights, fast decisions, and knowing when to keep your mouth shut. I ran errands and learned who to trust and who to avoid. I picked up on details—who owed who, who was lying, who was dangerous.
Rico watched me closely, testing me. He'd throw me into situations just to see if I'd break. I didn't.
"You think you're tough now?" he asked one night after I handled a delivery gone wrong, talking my way out of trouble. "You ain't seen real heat yet."
"Try me."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Damn. You got more guts than sense."
I learned quickly that in this world, you had to be a step ahead. It wasn't about being the strongest. It was about knowing when to push and when to step back. About reading people, anticipating their next move.
And then, just when I thought I was getting the hang of it, everything flipped.
---
I was supposed to collect a package from a diner on the 9th. Simple. In and out. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew something was off.
Two men at the counter—wrong posture, wrong energy. Cops, or worse. My instincts screamed at me to walk away, but it was too late.
"Celeste, right?" one of them said, turning in his seat.
I froze. He knew my name.
"Mind sitting down?" he continued, gesturing to the stool next to him.
I forced my expression into something unreadable. "I'm meeting someone."
"You are," he agreed, flashing a badge. "Me."
Shit.
I kept my breathing steady. "What do you want?"
He leaned in. "You're smart. You're learning the game. But let me tell you something—it always ends one of two ways. Dead or in cuffs."
I smirked, masking the nerves twisting in my gut. "Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about cops."
His jaw tightened. "Think hard about your next move, Celeste. You don't want to be on the wrong side of this."
"I don't have a side," I said, standing up. "I just have me."
As I walked out, I felt their eyes on my back. My heart pounded, but I didn't let it show. I had choices to make. Big ones. And I wasn't about to let anyone decide my fate but me.
---
That night, Rico waited for me outside the bodega, smoking.
"We got a problem?" he asked casually.
"Maybe."
He flicked his cigarette away, watching me. "You in or out?"
I exhaled slowly. I had learned the hustle, learned the risks. But this? This was something else.
I met his gaze. "I'm in."
His grin was sharp. "Good. Because tomorrow, we will start the real work."
I nodded, but deep down, I knew—I wasn't just playing the game anymore. I was becoming it.
And I wasn't sure if I'd ever come back from that.