"Sweep. The whole damn market."
Their faces went blank.
"You—You're joking," The last boy stammered.
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Luis Miguel's mouth opened and closed, his brain clearly struggling to process the sheer audacity of what I was demanding.
"You—You can't…"
"I can." I smirked. "And I just did."
"But…"
"Better start moving," I interrupted, nodding toward the vendors around us. "Because something tells me if you don't, these lovely people will be more than happy to help me make you."
As if on signal, several of the market workers cracked their knuckles. One of them, a butcher with a cleaver the size of my forearm, gave them a chilling grin.
"Get to it, muchachos," he said.
And they did. Oh, how they did.
They grabbed brooms with shaky hands, their faces filled with humiliation as they swept dirt and trash from the pathways, their fine clothes dusting up like they belonged to street beggars.
Well, if it was left to me, I'd say they did.
