Chapter 1: Easy Money, Family Ties

My cousin leaned back in his kitchen chair, the flicker from the TV dancing across his face, and said, “New Year’s is coming up, man. I’ll help you pull in fifteen grand, easy money, bro. You’ll finally be able to get yourself a girlfriend.”

He said it like it was just another Tuesday, casual as ever. In our family, New Year’s always meant big things—resolutions to hit the gym, promises to quit smoking, and talk of fresh starts. This year, apparently, it meant lining my pockets and maybe finally finding love. All I had to do was stack enough cash, like everyone else making big plans after the ball drops in Times Square.

My family was absolutely thrilled. Nobody doubted him—my cousin was a living legend. He’d made almost a million dollars and retired at twenty. Since then, he worked just one month a year, raking in hundreds of thousands before coming back home to kick back and relax.

They’d bring him up at every family barbecue—always burgers and hot dogs sizzling on the grill, the air thick with laughter and the smell of charcoal. Grandma would brag about him to her friends at the Baptist church, and even my dad—usually the first to scoff at get-rich-quick schemes—would just shake his head in disbelief. The story went: he was the kid from nowhere who made it big, the one who beat the system. Every summer, he’d roll in with a new ride, hand out gifts to everyone, and then vanish for the rest of the year to who knows where.

But all he did was take me to County General Hospital, slap a sign on me, and have me help out with parking.

The sign was homemade, blocky black letters scrawled across cardboard: “Valet—$5/hr.” I felt like a total dork, shivering in the wind, but my cousin just grinned and told me to keep my chin up. “Every good hustle starts with a little humility, man.”

The business was simple: parking at the hospital entrance was a nightmare, so we’d valet people’s cars, driving them over to the faded brick Maple Heights Mall and bringing them back when needed. Mall parking was free during the day, but we charged five bucks an hour for the convenience.

It sounded both genius and a little sketchy, but it worked. Folks coming to the ER or maternity wing were desperate for a spot. My cousin had everything mapped out—he knew the mall’s security schedule, the best blind spots, even printed up fake parking passes to hang from the rearview, just in case anyone checked.

I was stumped. How could this possibly add up to fifteen thousand a month?

I pulled out my phone and started crunching the numbers, my anxiety spiking as I realized the math didn’t seem to add up unless we ran twenty-four hours a day with a whole fleet of drivers. My cousin just winked at me, a glint of hope in his eyes, and said, “You’ll see.”

But since my cousin gave me the job, I worked my tail off and did everything by the book, especially since the contract said if we didn’t return a car promptly, we’d owe double.

He made me memorize every clause, even had me recite it like I was cramming for the SATs. “No shortcuts,” he said. “If you mess up, it’s coming out of your pocket.” My chest tightened every time I took a set of keys.

Then I picked up a Porsche Cayenne.

It was a sleek, black beast, custom rims shining, with leather seats so plush you felt like you should take your shoes off before sitting. The air inside was pure new car mixed with a hit of expensive cologne—felt like something a Kardashian would pull up in.

The owner was clearly loaded, dropping his wife off to have a baby. He was frazzled, barely even looked at me as he tossed me the keys.

He barely muttered, “Don’t scratch her, okay?” before darting back to help his wife out. The guy’s hands were trembling, and I saw a hospital bag crammed with baby clothes in the backseat.

I was about to drive the car to the mall lot when my cousin suddenly said, “Drive it home.”

His voice was cool but had a definite edge. He didn’t look up from his phone, just jerked his chin toward the street. My heart started pounding, sweat prickling my neck. I looked from the hospital to him, then back at the Cayenne.