Chapter 3
Andreas sat at his desk, the worn wood creaking slightly beneath his arms. The office wasn’t much—a small space tucked next to Carlos’ shop—but it was his. The sign out front, De la Vega, Attorney at Law, was a quiet testament to the slow but steady process of rebuilding. It wasn’t the courtroom, where other lawyers thrived on high-stakes drama. He preferred the quiet grind behind the desk, helping people away from the spotlight. His retainer with La Periodico gave him some stability, the first steady paycheck since he opened the office. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept the lights on. And for now, that was enough.
Six months had passed since Sylvia had found him at rock bottom, and now Andreas was starting to find his rhythm. His clients were mostly immigrants from the neighborhood—people who had few places to turn. They trusted him with their lives in the face of an indifferent system. It wasn’t flashy, but the work mattered.
Today, the Rodriguez family sat across from him, their anxiety palpable. The father, a man with work-worn hands and a lined face, spoke quietly. “The LAPD came after Marco,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “They planted drugs on him. He’s thirteen years old—they’re using him to get to me and José.”
Andreas felt a flicker of anger at the familiar story. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard of cops using questionable tactics to target people like the Rodriguezes. The LAPD had been after the father and José for a while, waiting for an excuse to raid the house. Marco, the youngest son, was just a pawn in their game.
“They came in with a warrant,” the father continued. “Busted down the door, searched everything. But they didn’t find what they were looking for. They thought they’d find more drugs, guns—something. But all they got was Marco, and now they’re threatening to charge him unless we give them something on the Que.”
Andreas nodded slowly, understanding the stakes. José, the older son, had been running with the Quechua for some time—a brutal street gang, not unlike MS-13, that had its hands in everything from drugs to human trafficking. The father had done some work for the Quechua as well, just enough to keep the family afloat. But now, both father and son were on the radar, and the LAPD had gone so far as to plant drugs on Marco to gain leverage.
“They want José and me,” the father admitted, his voice heavy with guilt. “But now the FBI is involved. They’re investigating the Que, and they’ve started looking at all of us. I’m worried they’re going to drag Marco and Luisa into this. They’re kids, and they’ve got nothing to do with it.”
The mother clutched Marco and Luisa close, her fear evident. “They’re just children,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “We can’t let them get pulled into this. The LAPD already crossed a line, and now with the FBI involved... it’s only going to get worse.”
Andreas leaned back, his mind working through the situation. The LAPD had kicked open a door that led straight to a federal investigation. The FBI wasn’t just after drugs—they were after the Que. And that meant José and the father were in far deeper trouble than just local law enforcement. “I understand,” Andreas said, keeping his tone even. “But with the FBI involved, this is bigger than the LAPD. They’re going after the entire organization, and that means anyone connected to it. Even if Marco and Luisa aren’t involved, they could still be caught in the crossfire.”
The father’s face tightened with worry. “What can we do? We can’t fight the LAPD and the FBI.”
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Andreas sighed, feeling the familiar weight of the decision pressing down on him. “I can help with the paperwork—file motions to keep Marco and Luisa out of the investigation. But when it comes to José and the federal case... you’ll need a defense attorney who specializes in federal law. This isn’t something I can handle on my own.”
The mother’s eyes filled with tears as she held her children tightly. “We just want to protect them,” she whispered. “We don’t want to lose everything.” Andreas nodded, feeling the knot of guilt tightening in his chest. “I’ll connect you with someone who can help,” he promised. “But you have to be prepared. The FBI won’t stop until they’ve torn everything apart. You need to be ready for that.”
The father stood, shaking Andreas’ hand, though his grip was heavy with fear and disappointment. “Thank you for being honest,” he muttered.
Marco glanced back as they reached the door, fear and confusion on his young face. Andreas watched them leave, the familiar knot in his stomach tightening. He had made the right call, but knowing the storm the Rodriguez family was about to face didn’t make it any easier.
Two weeks had passed since the meeting with the Rodriguez family, where Andreas had to turn down their case. Now, as he stepped into his mother’s house, the smell of pork chili greeted him, though it did little to ease the weight of the day. Dressed in his black three-piece suit from the funeral earlier, he slipped off his formal shoes at the door and replaced them with the Timberland boots he kept at his mom’s place. His jacket hung on a hook by the door. In the kitchen, Carlos was laughing, helping with the meal, while the faint crackle of the police scanner hummed in the background from the living room. Roberto’s absence was felt, as always, and Xavier’s wheelchair sat empty by the kitchen table. Xavier was under the sink, fixing something, as he often did when he was over.
Carlos, as usual, tried to lighten the mood with his carefree teasing. “Getting old, man. You sure you still fit into that suit?” he joked, grinning from the kitchen as he stirred a pot. Andreas chuckled, though his thoughts were elsewhere, distracted by the lingering tension of the Rodriguez family’s situation. “Yeah, looking way too fancy for the neighborhood, de la Vega,” Xavier’s voice came from under the sink. Andreas played along, but the weight of the day still sat heavily on him. The police scanner crackled in the background, unnoticed for now. Roberto’s old black ‘66 Dodge Charger sat outside, a constant reminder of his brother, the car now his by default.
The familiar crackle of the police scanner filled the living room, blending into the background until a sudden burst of static and an address snapped Andreas out of his thoughts. He froze. It was the Rodriguez family’s address. His heart skipped a beat, and the weight he had been carrying for weeks resurfaced all at once. The sound of the scanner repeated, and everything else faded—the kitchen chatter, Xavier’s lighthearted comments, even Carlos’ laughter. Without a word, Andreas excused himself and headed toward the living room. Something inside him stirred, a mix of guilt and responsibility that he could no longer ignore.
Standing in the living room, Andreas stared at the police scanner as the repeated call from dispatch echoed in his ears. His gaze shifted to the wall, where Roberto’s sword hung—a gift he’d had custom-made for his brother after that first fencing tournament win. His fingers closed around the hilt, and he pulled it down, the weight of the blade feeling both familiar and foreign. Securing the baldric to his belt, Andreas moved toward the door, but something else caught his eye—the old Zorro hat, cape, and mask hanging on the coat rack. His mother had always left it there after Halloween, a reminder of simpler days. The bandana with its molded leather was still tucked beside the hat. He hesitated, staring at the costume like it was some relic from a past life. This is stupid, he thought, but his hands moved on their own, grabbing the costume.
In the garage, Andreas found himself standing between the vehicles: Roberto’s black ‘66 Dodge Charger and Carlos’ VW van from the 60s, both parked in the driveway and coated in a fine layer of dust. He threw the hat and cape onto the seat of his dad’s motorcycle and pulled off his suit vest. For a moment, he paused, staring down at the reinforced vest in his hands. It felt heavier now, weighted with the implications of what he was about to do. What are you thinking? This isn’t some warzone. But the part of him that had seen combat knew better—he’d been trained to act when others hesitated.
Andreas slipped on the reinforced vest, the fit comfortable but out of place with the cape he now held in his hands. The motorcycle gleamed in the dim light of the garage, its galaxy-black tank sporting the tornado Xavier had painted as a joke. Am I seriously going to wear this? He laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he fastened the cape around his neck. He slipped on the black leather gloves, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts. This is ridiculous... but there’s no time to second-guess now.
Helmet in hand, Andreas secured Roberto’s sword to his belt, feeling the weight of the blade settle against his side. The Zorro hat was stashed behind him on the bike, but the mask... He ran his thumb over the molded leather before slipping it over his eyes, adjusting the bandana until it fit snugly. With a deep breath, he pulled on his black motorcycle helmet, the visor hiding the bandana beneath. He climbed onto the bike, the roar of the engine cutting through the quiet night as he revved it to life. The cape fluttered behind him, absurd and yet somehow fitting. With a final look back at the house, Andreas sped off into the night, heading toward the Rodriguez family’s address. There’s no turning back now.