CHAPTER ONE: THE REQUEST
The coffee shop was already buzzing with the morning rush when Luis Santiago walked into Breakwater Supply & Print, the small commercial printing business where he worked twelve-hour shifts six days a week. The bell above the door jingled sharply—clang, clang, clang, as if announcing trouble.
Not trouble for Luis.
But trouble about him.
Behind the counter stood Grant Mercer, the owner—a man with the too-perfect teeth of someone born rich and the cheap cologne of someone pretending he still was. His neatly gelled blond hair didn’t move when he turned. The sleeves of his tailored shirt were rolled just enough to display expensive cufflinks no normal print-shop owner needed.
He spotted Luis instantly.
“Morning,” Grant said, though it didn’t sound like a greeting—it sounded like a warning. “Don’t clock in yet. We need to talk.”
Luis froze, the breath hitching in his chest. He knew that tone. He’d heard it many times in his two years working for Grant, ever since arriving in the U.S. from El Salvador with little more than ambition and his father’s watch.
Still, he stepped forward. “Sí, sir. What’s wrong?”
Grant didn’t waste time. “You asked yesterday for a day off this Thursday.”
Luis nodded. “Yes, sir. My—my father passed away back home. The funeral is—”
“Right,” Grant interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I get that family comes first for you people—”
Luis blinked. For you people. He’d heard worse, but it always stung.
“—but we’re not running a charity,” Grant said, leaning back on his stool. “We have three big orders going out this week. I need everyone here. No exceptions.”
Luis’s heart dropped.
“But it’s just one day,” he said quietly. “My mamá is alone. She needs—”
“That sounds like her problem,” Grant said sharply. “Not mine.”
The words hit Luis like a slap.
Grant stood, adjusting his shirt cuffs. “Look, if I let you go to your little ceremony, who picks up your shift? Who gets the job done? I don’t pay you to grieve. We’ve got deadlines. Paying clients.”
Luis swallowed. “Sir… it’s my father’s funeral.” His voice cracked slightly. “Please.”
Grant leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Do you want to work here or not?”
Silence.
The entire print shop—employees moving boxes, the hum of printers, the scent of ink—seemed to pause.
Luis lowered his head. “I want to work.”
“Then show up Thursday,” Grant said, clapping him on the shoulder with fake warmth. “You’re lucky to have this job. People like you should remember that.”
People like you.
Luis nodded stiffly, though the world blurred at the edges. He went to clock in.
Behind him, Grant smirked to the assistant manager, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Ridiculous. Asking for time off for some third-world funeral. These immigrants think we’re running a charity.”
Snickers rippled through the workshop.
Luis kept walking.
He didn’t break until he reached the back room, where no one could see the tears gathering in his eyes.
CHAPTER TWO: TWO WEEKS WITHOUT A FATHER
The next fourteen days were a blur of exhaustion. Luis worked like a machine during his shifts, and when he wasn’t working, he was calling relatives back home, trying to help coordinate expenses for the funeral he couldn’t attend.
Every night he replayed the same thought: Papá deserved better.
Luis had promised his father that coming to America would mean more opportunities, a better life, a chance to lift the family up. But as he boxed printed brochures and cleaned ink rollers late into the night, all he felt was guilt.
His father had sacrificed everything.
And Luis couldn’t sacrifice one day.
Employees at the shop whispered behind his back—some sympathetic, others mocking. The assistant manager, Jim, joked loudly that Luis should be thankful Grant didn’t fire him.
Grant didn’t bring it up again, but every time he walked past Luis, he gave him that smug, knowing smirk.
Luis pushed through.
He always pushed through.
He needed the paycheck. Immigration status, rent, insurance—each depended on him not making waves.
But sometimes… life didn’t wait for permission.
Sometimes it placed justice right smack in the middle of a man’s path.
CHAPTER THREE: THE INSPECTION
Two weeks later, on a Wednesday morning, Luis was loading a pallet of newly shrink-wrapped brochures when he heard hurried footsteps.
Jim burst into the back room, face pale. “Everyone, listen up! The corporate investor is coming today. Today. Like—in ten minutes.”
Employees murmured in confusion.
Grant stormed in seconds later, fixing his tie, sweating. “This is a surprise inspection,” he snapped. “A major investor in Breakwater Partners is touring all the small operations. They decide which franchises get expansion funding.”
He straightened his collar. “And that is going to be me.”
People rushed around—cleaning tables, organizing stacks of paper, hiding old equipment.
Luis wiped his hands on his apron, staying out of the chaos. Grant didn’t acknowledge him.
He never did unless he needed something.
The front bell chimed.
Grant sprinted toward the entrance, forcing a confident smile, hand outstretched.
A man stepped in.
Tall. Dark-haired. Early forties. Suit sharp enough to slice paper. Confident but not arrogant. His eyes scanned the room with calm authority.
“Welcome to Breakwater Supply & Print,” Grant said eagerly. “I’m the owner, Grant Mercer. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
The investor shook his hand politely but with minimal enthusiasm.
“I’m Alejandro Torres,” he said.
Luis, still half-hidden behind a pallet, froze.
Santiago, he whispered to himself.
Alejandro Torres was the CEO of Torres Development Group, the third-largest investor in small-business incubators on the East Coast. Luis had heard the name many times—especially from Latino immigrant groups who considered Torres a symbol of what success could look like.
He knew the man grew up in a working-class immigrant household. He knew Torres never forgot where he came from.
And apparently, Torres now owned a large share of Breakwater.
Grant had no idea who he was dealing with.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE TOUR FROM HELL
Grant strutted through the warehouse like a show pony.
“We pride ourselves on efficiency,” he boasted. “Strong leadership keeps workers focused. I run a tight ship.”
“That so?” Torres said, voice neutral.
“Oh yes,” Grant continued. “My employees know they’re expected to put this business first. We don’t tolerate excuses here.”
He stopped beside a desk, tapping a stack of schedules. “We can’t let them take days off for personal drama. I tell them straight: we’re not running a charity.”
Several employees flinched.
Luis went still.
Torres’s eyes flicked toward him for just a moment—just long enough to register everything: the tired expression, the apron stained with ink, the quiet humility.
Grant kept talking, oblivious.
“You see that guy?” he said, pointing toward Luis. “Hard worker, sure, but he tried to skip out on a critical shift because he wanted to fly back for—what was it? A funeral?”
Jim snorted. “For his dad or something.”
Grant waved his hand dismissively. “Exactly. I told him straight—if you want charity, go somewhere else.”
A silence rolled across the room, so heavy even the printers seemed to pause.
Torres turned.
Slowly.
His eyes locked on Luis.
“Is that true?” he asked softly.
Luis swallowed. “Sir… I didn’t want to cause trouble. I just asked for a day. I—”
Grant laughed loudly, clapping Torres on the back. “You know how it is! Emotional types. Very dramatic. But I run this place like a business. No exceptions.”
Torres stepped away from Grant’s hand.
His voice changed—no longer polite, but diamond-sharp.
“Tell me something, Mr. Mercer,” he said. “Have you ever attended a parent’s funeral?”
Grant blinked. “Well—yeah, but—”
“Did someone tell you they wouldn’t give you a day off?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Did someone call your grief ‘drama’?”
Grant faltered. “…No.”
Torres nodded slowly, jaw tightening.
Then he smiled—but it was the kind of smile no one wanted directed at them.
“Mr. Mercer,” he said, “you said you’re proud of your leadership.”
“Extremely,” Grant said, sensing affirmation.
“Well,” Torres replied, “I’m not.”
The room exhaled.
Grant’s smile collapsed.
CHAPTER FIVE: THE HANDSHAKE
Torres stepped toward Luis.
Not Grant.
Not Jim.
Not the polished office.
Luis.
He extended his hand.
Firm. Respectful.
“Señor Santiago,” he said warmly. “My deepest condolences for your father.”
Luis’s breath caught. His eyes burned.
“You… you know my name?”
Torres smiled. “I make it my business to know who actually keeps these franchises running. And from what I can see, it isn’t Mr. Mercer.”
A few employees coughed to hide their laughs.
Grant’s face turned beet red.
Torres turned back to him. “You said you’re not running a charity. Good. Because neither am I.”
Grant straightened, confused. “Meaning…?”
“Meaning,” Torres said, “starting today, Breakwater Supply & Print is under immediate review. Pending the results, your franchise rights—and your investor funding—are suspended.”
The room exploded with whispers.
Grant’s mouth opened and closed. “Susp—what? You can’t just—”
“I own thirty percent of this operation,” Torres said coolly. “I absolutely can.”
Grant looked around wildly. “This is insane! Over him?”
Torres didn’t flinch. “Yes. Over him.”
Luis felt his pulse in his throat.
Then Torres added, “While we’re reviewing this shop, I’d like to bring Mr. Santiago in for discussions about workplace policy. People with integrity belong in leadership.”
Grant nearly collapsed.
Employees exchanged glances—some shocked, some delighted, many quietly relieved.
Luis’s knees felt weak.
“Me?” he whispered. “Sir, I’m just—”
“You are a man who worked through grief because you thought you had no choice,” Torres said. “A man who respected his job more than his employer respected him. And that is exactly the kind of strength I look for.”
Grant stuttered. “This is—this is ridiculous! He’s just some immigrant worker!”
Torres turned, eyes burning.
“And I’m just the son of a warehouse janitor,” he said. “Careful who you dismiss.”
Silence.
Absolute, delicious silence.
Grant sank into his office chair, defeated.
Torres put a hand on Luis’s shoulder. “Take tomorrow off,” he said gently. “Your father deserves a proper goodbye. And when you come back, you and I will talk about your future.”
Luis nodded, tears slipping free. “Gracias, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” Torres said softly. “Thank yourself. Your father raised a good man. I’m just recognizing him.”
CHAPTER SIX: FULL-CIRCLE
Luis left early that day, stepping outside into the crisp air. His hands trembled, not from cold but from relief that washed through him like a breaking wave.
He pulled out his father’s watch.
Held it to his heart.
For the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe.
Inside, employees murmured excitedly. Jim avoided eye contact. Grant sulked in his office, staring at the stack of schedules that suddenly meant nothing.
Justice hadn’t shouted.
It had simply extended a hand.
And made the right person shake it.
