THE CASH BOX VOLUME I: AMERICAN EAGLES. (Full DVDRiP).avi
“THE CASH BOX”
Chapter 1: Karina
The Houston skyline loomed in the distance, a jagged silhouette of glass and steel cutting through the thick haze of heat and smog. It was 2025, and the city had become a sprawling testament to the new America—a place where the rules of the past had been burned away, leaving only the raw, unvarnished truth of survival. The streets below buzzed with electric cars and the occasional roar of a gasoline engine, a relic of a bygone era. Drones zipped overhead like mechanical vultures, their shadows flickering across the pavement. The air smelled of exhaust and desperation.
Lorenzo stepped out of the elevator and into the penthouse, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. The room was a monument to excess: floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, the furniture was sleek and modern, and the air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. Big Earl sat on a leather couch, his massive frame spilling over the edges, a gold chain glinting against his chest. His right-hand man, Drake, stood behind him, lean and sharp-eyed, his hand resting casually on the grip of a pistol tucked into his waistband. Anita, Big Earl’s girlfriend, lounged nearby, her long nails tapping against the screen of her phone.
“Lorenzo,” Big Earl greeted, his voice a low rumble. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” Lorenzo replied, his voice smooth and unbothered. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit and stepped further into the room and placing a briefcase to the floor. Henry, his right-hand man, followed close behind, carrying a sleek black briefcase in each hand. “You know how it is. Houston’s a jungle these days.”
Big Earl snorted, his jowls quivering. “Ain’t that the truth. Trump’s new America—every man for himself, right?”
Lorenzo chuckled, though his eyes remained cold. The tension in the room was palpable, a coiled spring ready to snap. The two men exchanged a few more barbs, their words laced with thinly veiled threats and references to the shifting political landscape. The country had changed since Trump’s return to power, and the underworld had adapted accordingly. Cash was out; gold was in. Trust was a liability, and betrayal was just good business.
The deal was simple: fentanyl for gold. Lorenzo had insisted on payment in coins, not cash. Too easy to trace, too easy to lose value overnight. Big Earl had agreed, though not without grumbling about the inconvenience. Now, the gold sat between them, gleaming in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. The bag was heavy, the coins inside clinking softly as Big Earl slid it across the table.
“Three million,” Big Earl said, his eyes narrowing. “Count it if you want.”
Lorenzo didn’t bother. He nodded to Henry, who opened a briefcase to reveal rows of neatly packed fentanyl patches. The exchange was quick, efficient, and devoid of ceremony. But as Henry handed a briefcase to Drake, the air shifted. A flicker of movement, a glance exchanged between Drake and Henry—and then all hell broke loose.
The first shot rang out, sharp and deafening in the confined space. Lorenzo dove to the floor, his shoulder burning where the bullet grazed him. The room erupted into chaos. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Big Earl roared, reaching for a weapon, but he was too slow. Bullets tore through the room, each one a thunderclap that reverberated in Lorenzo’s skull. Anita screamed, her phone clattering to the floor as she dove for cover. Drake fired wildly, his face a mask of rage and fear.
Lorenzo scrambled behind the couch, his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear Henry’s voice, cold and calm, giving orders. The gold was gone, stolen in the chaos. Lorenzo cursed, his mind racing. He fumbled for his phone and dialed Dany, his most reliable thug.
“Get to the parking garage,” he hissed, his voice low and urgent. “Henry’s got the gold. Don’t let him leave.”
---
Dany waited in the dimly lit garage, his hand resting on the grip of his gun. The elevator doors opened, and Lorenzo stumbled out, the briefcases of fentanyl falling to the ground, blood soaking through his suit. Dany’s eyes widened, but he didn’t ask questions. There was no time.
“Henry’s gone,” Lorenzo growled, his voice tight with pain and rage. “He took the gold. We need to move.”
After tossing the trio of briefcases into the trunk, they jumped into Lorenzo’s car, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows and enough horsepower to outrun anything on the road. Dany hit the gas, and the tires screeched as they sped out of the garage. The city blurred around them, a kaleidoscope of neon lights and shadowy alleyways. Lorenzo’s phone buzzed with updates from his network—Henry had been spotted heading toward the highway.
The chase was brutal, a high-speed game of cat and mouse that pushed both men to their limits. Dany weaved through traffic, his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes locked on the road ahead. Lorenzo clenched his jaw, his shoulder throbbing with every bump and turn. The gold was out there, somewhere, and he would stop at nothing to get it back.
They caught up to Henry at a downtown bank. Lorenzo and Dany watched from a distance as Henry disappeared inside, the bag of gold slung over his shoulder. They waited, their patience wearing thin, until Henry emerged empty-handed. He climbed into his car, but before he could drive off, Lorenzo and Dany were on him.
The confrontation was quick and merciless. Henry didn’t stand a chance. Lorenzo’s gun barked once, twice, and Henry slumped over the wheel, his blood pooling on the leather seat. Lorenzo stood over the body, his chest heaving with exertion and rage. The gold was gone, and Henry had taken its location to his grave.
Dany wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘He clearly put it into a safety deposit box or something, but I can’t find the key anywhere. You think he put it in his asshole?’
Lorenzo stared at him.
“Search his apartment for the other key,” Lorenzo ordered, his voice cold and final. “Tear it apart if you have to. Get back that gold.”
Dany nodded, his face grim. As Lorenzo climbed back into the car, his mind raced. The gold was out there, somewhere, and he would stop at nothing to get it back. In Trump’s new America, survival was a game of wits and willpower—and Lorenzo wasn’t about to lose.
The sun hung low over Houston, a burnt orange smear bleeding into the smoggy horizon. The city sprawled beneath it, a labyrinth of glass towers and crumbling strip malls, highways snaking through the heat like asphalt rivers. Condo City loomed in the distance, its reflective windows catching the dying light, a monument to the kind of people who thought they could outrun the rot. But the rot was everywhere. In the potholes on 59, in the flickering neon of the pawn shops, in the way the air clung to your skin, thick and unrelenting.
Karina stepped off the elevator, her suitcase rolling behind her, the wheels catching on the frayed carpet. She fumbled with her keys, her fingers slick with sweat. The door creaked open, and the apartment greeted her with its stale, lifeless air.
‘Henry?’
No Henry. No note. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint smell of something burnt.
‘I know you didn’t want to come with me to my parents’ house but you coulda picked me up from the airport you asshole!’
She dropped her bag by the door and kicked off her sandals. The tile floor was cool under her feet. She moved to the kitchen, her reflection ghosting in the dark window above the sink. She filled a pot with water, set it on the stove, and lit the burner. The blue flame hissed to life.
The music came next. She turned it up loud, something with a beat, something to drown out the silence. She swayed her hips, let the rhythm take her, her bare feet sliding across the linoleum. For a moment, she forgot about Henry, about the fight, about the way he’d looked at her when she asked him to come with her to see her parents. Like she’d asked for too much. Like she always did.
The water began to boil.
Dany moved like a shadow, his boots silent on the fire escape. The window was open, just a crack, but enough. He slid it up, the muscles in his arms taut, his face a mask of concentration. He’d been waiting for this. Watching. Planning. Henry had screwed up, and now Dany was here to clean up the mess.
He stepped inside, the apartment dim except for the glow of the stove light. Karina was dancing, her back to him, her hair swinging as she moved. He took a step forward, the floorboard creaking under his weight.
She turned.
For a split second, they stared at each other, the music pulsing between them. Then she grabbed the pot of boiling water and hurled it at him.
Dany ducked, but not fast enough. The water caught him on the side of his face, searing his skin. He cursed, his voice raw, and lunged at her. They crashed into the counter, dishes rattling, the pot clattering to the floor.
Karina fought like a wild thing, her nails raking his arms, her knee driving into his gut. Dany grunted, his hands closing around her wrists. He shoved her against the wall, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs.
But she wasn’t done. She twisted free, her elbow catching him in the jaw. He stumbled back, and she was on him again, her fists flying. They grappled, their bodies slamming into furniture, the apartment shaking with the force of their struggle.
Danny’s hand found her throat. He squeezed, his fingers digging into her skin. Karina clawed at his arm, her vision blurring, the edges of the room going dark.
Then she kicked. Hard.
Her foot connected with his knee, and he buckled, his grip loosening. She shoved him, her hands flat against his chest, and he staggered back, his legs hitting the balcony railing.
For a moment, he teetered, his arms wheeling, his face a mask of shock. Then he was gone, his body disappearing over the edge.
Karina stood there, her chest heaving, her hands trembling. The music still played, the beat thumping in her ears. She stepped to the railing and looked down. Dany lay sprawled on the pavement below, his limbs bent at unnatural angles, his eyes staring up at nothing.
She turned away, her heart pounding, and went back inside. The water had boiled away, the pot scorched and smoking. She turned off the stove and sat down at the table, her head in her hands.
Outside, the city hummed, indifferent. Somewhere, a siren wailed. Karina closed her eyes and waited for the world to catch up.
Chapter 2: The Key
Karina sat in the back of the police car, her arms wrapped around herself like a shield. The flashing lights painted her face in red and blue. Reporters shouted questions. Cameras clicked. She stared straight ahead, her face blank, but inside, her mind was a storm.
“Miss Alvarez!” a reporter barked, shoving a microphone at her. “Did you know the man who fell from your balcony? Was he an intruder?”
Karina shook her head, her voice barely audible. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know why this happened.”
The crowd pressed closer, their voices overlapping, their questions sharp and relentless. Karina flinched, shrinking back into the seat. She felt like a cornered animal, the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on her. Her thoughts spiraled, a whirlwind of regret and self-blame.
I shouldn’t have fought with him, she thought, her chest tightening. I shouldn’t have left for my parents’ house. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve tried harder. I needed him. I still need him.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall in front of the cameras. She felt defeated, broken. The fight with Henry played over and over in her mind—the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d said her name, the way he’d turned away when she asked him to come with her. She’d been so angry, so sure she was right. But now, sitting in the back of a police car, surrounded by strangers shouting questions she couldn’t answer, she felt the weight of her mistakes crushing her.
This is my fault, she thought, her hands trembling. All of it. If I hadn’t pushed him, if I hadn’t left… maybe he’d still be here. Maybe none of this would’ve happened.
A tall officer with a salt-and-pepper mustache pushed through the chaos, his presence commanding and ominous. He leaned down to the car window, his shadow falling over her like a storm cloud.
“Miss Alvarez,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, like the growl of a dog warning of danger. “I’m Officer Frank. Step out of the car. We need to talk.”
Karina hesitated, then nodded. She stepped out, her legs shaky. Officer Frank guided her away from the noise, his hand firm on her elbow. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and his voice carried a weight that made her stomach twist.
“I’m sorry to tell you this,” he said, his tone heavy, “but your boyfriend, Henry, was killed earlier today.”
Karina’s breath hitched. “No. That’s not possible. He was supposed to be home.”
Officer Frank’s eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing. “We have reason to believe Henry was involved in some dangerous business. We think he may have been working for a man named Lorenzo Hernandez-Cortez. Do you know anything about that?”
Karina shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “No. He never told me anything. He was just… Henry.”
Officer Frank leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, each word deliberate and ominous. “Lorenzo is a rising star in the drug trafficking world, Miss Alvarez. He’s young, ambitious, and ruthless. He’s a huge concern for the Houston police. If Henry was working for him, even tangentially, it puts you in a very dangerous position.”
Karina’s heart pounded. “I don’t understand. Why would he care about me?”
Officer Frank’s jaw tightened. “Because Henry was his. And now Henry’s dead. Lorenzo doesn’t leave loose ends. He doesn’t forgive. And he doesn’t forget. I can tell you stories from this man’s epic rap sheet but I think you’ve been traumatized enough for one night.”
He handed her a card, his fingers brushing hers with a cold, deliberate touch. “Call me if you think of anything. And don’t trust anybody. Not even the people you think you know.”
Karina took the card, her fingers trembling. “Okay.”
Officer Frank glanced around, his voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. “The state of this country… it’s crumbling. Illegal immigration, drug crime—it’s a flood, and we’re drowning. Lorenzo’s just one piece of it. But he’s a big piece. And he’s got his claws in everything.”
Karina frowned, her voice shaky but defiant. “Henry always said he was above the law. He only hired legal immigrants for his construction jobs. He was strict about that.”
Officer Frank’s lips curled into a grim smile. “Above the law? Miss Alvarez, there’s no such thing. Not in this world. Not anymore.”
Before Karina could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air. “That’s enough, Officer. She’s been through enough for one night.”
Karina turned. It was her best friend Dee. Dee was striding toward them, her heels clicking like gunshots. She wore a leather jacket that looked like it had been stolen from a 90s action movie and jeans ripped in all the right places. Her hair was a wild halo of curls, and her eyes were sharp.
Officer Frank held up his hands, his expression unreadable. “Just doing my job.”
Dee snorted. “Your job is to scare the hell out of her? Cool. Real cool.”
Officer Frank’s eyes darkened as he looked at Dee, then back at Karina. “Be careful,” he said again, his voice like a warning bell. Then he turned and walked away, his silhouette swallowed by the flashing lights.
Dee wrapped an arm around Karina’s shoulders. “Come on, babe. Let’s get you out of this dystopian nightmare.”
---
Dee’s apartment was a riot of color and chaos. Neon lights buzzed. Incense burned. Dee poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Karina, who sat on the couch, her knees pulled to her chest. The TV was on, muted, showing a rerun of Trump’s second inauguration. A pundit was yelling over the footage, his face red, his hands waving wildly. The chyron below him read: “Fragile Masculinity in the Age of Elon Musk.”
Dee grabbed the remote and unmuted the TV. The pundit’s voice filled the room.
“—and what we’re seeing here is the collapse of traditional masculinity! Elon Musk is out here buying Twitter, colonizing Mars, and what are men doing? They’re crying on podcasts about how hard it is to be a man in 2025! It’s pathetic!”
Dee rolled her eyes and muted it again. “God, these guys are insufferable. Like, we get it, your masculinity is fragile. Go to therapy.”
Karina stared into her glass. “Henry wasn’t like that. He was… strong. He took care of things.”
Dee raised an eyebrow. “Oh, please. Henry was a walking red flag. Like, ‘I’m the man of the house, and you’re my little woman’ vibes. You just didn’t see it because you were too busy playing the perfect girlfriend.”
Karina frowned. “I wasn’t playing anything. I loved him.”
Dee leaned forward, her expression serious. “Babe, love doesn’t mean you have to ignore the red flags. Look at the news. Men are out here doing the most. Have you seen what’s happening in Congress? They’re rolling back women’s rights like it’s 1950. And don’t even get me started on the Supreme Court. It’s a mess.”
Karina sighed. “I just… I can’t believe he’s gone. And now the police think I know something. But I don’t. I don’t know anything.”
Dee leaned forward, her eyes intense. “Karina, you need to be livid. Henry put you in danger. He lied to you. He kept you in the dark about everything. You could’ve been killed tonight. Do you understand that?”
Karina shook her head, her voice trembling. “I don’t know, Dee. I just… I can’t believe he’s gone. My life will never be the same again.”
Dee’s expression softened, but only for a moment. “I get it. You’re grieving. But you need to be angry too. Henry was supposed to protect you, not put you in harm’s way. He was supposed to be your partner, not some shady gangster.”
Karina’s eyes filled with tears. “I know. But I loved him. I still love him. And now he’s gone, and I don’t know what to do.”
Dee reached out, taking Karina’s hand in hers. “You’re strong, Karina. Stronger than you think. You’ll get through this. But you need to be mad. You need to be furious. Henry betrayed you. He put you in danger. And you deserve better.”
Karina nodded, her tears spilling over. “I know. I just… I don’t know how to move on. My life will never be the same again.”
Dee squeezed her hand. “It won’t. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be better. You’ll get through this. And I’ll be here every step of the way.”
Karina managed a small smile. “Thanks, Dee. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Dee grinned. “You’d be lost, obviously. But don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”
Dee set her glass down. “Okay, let’s break this down. Henry was a gangster. You didn’t know. Now he’s dead, and the cops are sniffing around. What’s the play here?”
Karina shook her head. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to badmouth him. Not yet.”
Dee rolled her eyes. “Girl, he’s dead. He’s not gonna haunt you for calling him out. Unless he’s, like, a ghost now. Which would be super problematic, by the way.”
Karina managed a small smile. “You’re impossible.”
Dee grinned. “Impossible is my middle name. Right after ‘Dat’ and ‘Super Bitch.’”
---
The sun was shining through the window. The door creaked open, and Karina’s now-former landlord Prabakhar stepped in, his arms full of mail. He was a small man with a big smile and an even bigger mustache. His shirt was buttoned wrong, and his pants were held up by a belt that looked like it had seen better days.
“Ladies!” he announced, his voice booming. “I bring you the mail! And also, my presence. Which is a gift, no?”
Dee laughed. “Prabakhar, you’re a national treasure.”
Prabakhar bowed dramatically. “Thank you, thank you. I try. And Karina, know that he apartment is always yours if you want me to transfer Henry’s lease to you.”
Karina smiled, despite herself. “Thanks. And thanks for bringing the mail, Prabakhar.”
Prabakhar waved a hand. “It is my pleasure. You are like daughters to me. Well, if I had daughters. Which I do not. Because I am a bachelor. A very eligible bachelor.”
Dee grinned. “Oh, we know. Houston’s most eligible bachelor.”
Prabakhar puffed out his chest. “Yes, yes. It is a heavy burden, but I bear it with grace.”
Karina laughed, the sound surprising her. “You’re ridiculous.”
Prabakhar winked. “Ridiculous is my middle name. Right after ‘handsome’ and ‘charming.’”
Dee rolled her eyes. “Okay, Casanova. We get it. You’re a catch.”
Prabakhar sighed dramatically. “Alas, the ladies do not appreciate me. But I persevere. I am like the hero of a Bollywood movie. Always dancing, always singing, always waiting for my true love.”
Karina shook her head, smiling. “You’re impossible.”
Prabakhar bowed again. “Thank you, thank you. I try.”
He left, his laughter echoing down the hallway. Dee turned to Karina, her eyes sparkling.
“Okay, that man is a treasure. We need to keep him.”
Karina ignored her, flipping through the mail. A small key fell out of one of the envelopes. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand.
Dee’s eyes lit up. “Well, well. What do we have here?”
Karina’s heart raced. “Do you think…?”
Dee grabbed her jacket. “Only one way to find out. Let’s go to the bank.”
————-
Across the street from the bank, Dee’s car sat parked. Karina held the key in her hand, her mind racing. It was small, unassuming, but it felt heavy with possibility. Dee leaned in, her eyes wide.
“Okay, this is it,” Dee said, her voice low. “This is the moment. The key to the mystery. The key to… whatever the hell Henry was into.”
Karina stared at it, her stomach churning. “What if it’s nothing?”
Dee grinned. “What if it’s everything?”
The city hummed outside, indifferent. Somewhere, a siren wailed. Karina closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The mystery had evolved. And she was ready to discover everything.
Chapter 3: The Cash Box
Karina stood outside the bank, her heart pounding in her chest. The morning sun was harsh, casting long shadows across the pavement. She clutched the safety deposit box key in her hand, her fingers trembling. The bank loomed before her, its glass doors reflecting the bustling street. She took a deep breath and pushed through the doors, the cool air inside a stark contrast to the heat outside.
The bank was quiet, the hum of distant conversations and the occasional beep of a machine the only sounds. Karina approached the counter, where a timid black man with glasses sat, his eyes darting nervously behind his thick frames. He looked up as she approached, his smile polite but uneasy.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice soft.
Karina nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to access my safety deposit box.”
The man nodded, his hands fumbling with a set of keys. “Of course. Right this way.”
He led her through a series of secure doors, each one requiring a key or a code. Karina’s nerves were on edge, her mind racing with possibilities. What could be in the box? Why had Henry left her the key? The questions swirled in her mind, each one more unsettling than the last.
Finally, they reached the vault. The man inserted his key into the lock and turned it, the sound echoing in the small space. He stepped aside, allowing Karina to insert her key. She did so with trembling hands, the lock clicking open. The man pulled out the box and handed it to her, his eyes avoiding hers.
“Take your time,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Karina nodded, her heart pounding as she carried the box to a small, private room. She set it down on the table and stared at it for a moment, her breath shallow. Finally, she lifted the lid.
Her eyes widened in shock. The box was filled with gold coins, their surfaces gleaming in the dim light. They were packed tightly in a bag, the weight of it surprising her as she lifted it out. She had expected to find the engagement ring Henry gave her and Henry’s Rolex, not this. Not gold.
Her mind raced. Where had this come from? Why had Henry hidden it here? The questions were overwhelming, but there was no time to dwell on them. She needed to get out of here.
Karina quickly closed the box and returned it to the man, who was waiting nervously outside the room. She thanked him and hurried out of the bank, the bag of gold clutched tightly in her arms.
As she stepped outside, she was unaware of the man watching her from a car parked across the street. He was a thug, his face scarred and twisted, his features oddly mismatched. His nose was crooked, his lips thin and cruel, and his eyes were small and dark, like a predator’s. He watched her intently, his expression blank.
Karina hurried down the street, her heart racing. Her knees trembled as she fell into the seat next to Dee. Her friend’s eyes widened as she saw the bag of gold clutched tightly in her arms, her mouth dropping open.
“What the hell is that?” she exclaimed, her voice high-pitched with excitement.
Karina set the bag down on her lap, her hands trembling. “It’s gold. It was in the safety deposit box.”
Dee’s eyes lit up, her excitement palpable. “Gold? Like, actual gold? Holy shit, Karina, do you know how much this could be worth?”
Karina shook her head, her mind still reeling. “I don’t know. But it’s a lot. It’s heavy.”
Dee raced back to her apartment, almost skipping red lights and crashing into Karina’s car in the small parking lot. In her living room, Dee beamed, her mind racing with possibilities. “We could do so much with this. We could travel, buy a house, start a business… the possibilities are endless!”
Karina frowned, her voice uncertain. “I don’t know, Dee. This doesn’t feel right. It’s not ours. It’s Henry’s. Or maybe it’s Lorenzo’s. I don’t know.”
Dee waved her hand dismissively. “Henry’s dead, Karina. And Lorenzo’s a criminal. He doesn’t deserve this. We do.”
Karina shook her head, her mind racing. “I don’t know. I just… I need to think about this.”
Dee grabbed her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “Let’s find out how much it’s worth. Then we can decide what to do.”
Karina nodded, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Okay. But how?”
Dee grinned, holding up her phone. “We’ll use ChatGPT. It knows everything.”
“Okay,” Dee said, her voice high-pitched with excitement. “This thing knows everything. It’s like Google, but sassier.”
Karina blinked. “ChatGPT? Are you sure that’s reliable?”
Dee waved her off. “Reliable? Karina, this thing can tell you how to make a soufflé, calculate your carbon footprint, and diagnose a rash. It’s basically a genius. Now, help me figure out how to weigh this gold.”
Dee furiously typed as she read out loud: “Hello, ChatGPT…” Karina stared at her curiously. Dee stared back for a second and continued. “Please detail me how gold’s worth is calculated.” Karina’s heart pounded as paragraph after paragraph detailed the instructions on Dee’s phone. Her friends eyes rapidly darted down the lines until her eyes widened happily. “We have to weigh it!”
Karina frowned. “Weigh it? With what?”
Dee jumped up, nearly knocking her chair over. “My bathroom scale! Duh. It’s digital and everything. It’ll be perfect.”
Karina hesitated. “A bathroom scale? For gold? Dee, that’s not exactly… scientific.”
Dee was already halfway down the hall, her voice echoing back. “Science is just guessing with extra steps, Karina! Trust me!”
Dee returned, dragging the scale behind her. She plopped it on the table with a triumphant grin. “Behold! The most advanced gold-weighing technology known to man.”
Karina raised an eyebrow. “It’s a scale you bought at Target for $19.99.”
Dee gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “Excuse you, it was on sale for $14.99. And it has a *memory function*. That’s basically NASA-level tech.”
Karina couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, alright. Let’s just do this before I change my mind and call the police.”
Dee’s eyes widened. “Do not say the word ‘police’ right now. We’re in this. Deep. Like, Ocean’s Eleven deep. Now, help me pour these coins onto the scale.”
Karina hesitated, then carefully opened the bag and poured coins onto the scale. The digital numbers flickered, then settled.
“Okay,” Dee said, squinting at the screen. “That’s… freaking heavy. 66 and a half pounds. Wait, no. We need to convert to kilograms? What even is a kilogram?”
Karina groaned. “Dee, we need to know the weight in grams. Gold is measured in grams.”
Dee blinked. “Since when?”
“Let’s just ask the chatbot.”
She typed furiously into her phone. “Hey, ChatGPT. How do we convert 66.5 pounds to kilograms?”
The chatbot responded instantly: “66.5 pounds equals 30.164 kilograms.”
Dee gasped. “Wow. Groundbreaking. Okay, so 30.164 kilograms is… how many grams?”
Karina nodded slowly. “I don’t,know. But we need to weigh all of it. There’s more in the bag.”
Dee grinned. “Alright, Goldilocks. Pour the rest on.”
Karina carefully poured the remaining coins onto the scale. The numbers jumped, then settled at
Dee’s eyes widened. “73.04 pounds? That’s… let me see here….33.129 kilograms. Right?”
Karina nodded. “Yeah. I think that’s what it says.”
Dee typed into the chatbot again. “Hey, ChatGPT. How much is 33.129 kilograms of gold worth?”
The chatbot responded: “The value of gold fluctuates daily. As of today, gold is valued at approximately $93,204 kilogram.”
Dee’s jaw dropped. “Per kilogram? Karina, do the math!”
Karina’s eyes widened. “Ask the Chat GPT!”
Dee typed it in. “$3,087,755.32”
The room fell silent. Both girls stared at the number on the screen, their mouths hanging open.
Dee broke the silence first. “Three million dollars. Three. Million. Dollars. Karina, we’re rich. Like, rich rich. Like, get the fuck outta the city and quit working rich.”
Karina shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “This can’t be real. This has to be a mistake.”
Dee grabbed her shoulders, shaking her slightly. “It’s not a mistake! It’s math! Math doesn’t lie!”
Karina stared at the bag of gold, her mind racing. “What are we supposed to do with this? We can’t just… keep it.”
Dee gasped, clutching her chest again. “Can’t keep it? Karina, this is life-changing money. We could do anything. We could start a business. We could travel the world. We could buy a yacht and name it R.I.P. Henry.”
Karina groaned. “Dee, this isn’t funny. This is… this is insane. This is probably illegal.”
Dee waved her hand dismissively. “Illegal, my ass. Henry left it for you. That makes it yours. Finders keepers.”
Karina frowned. “What if it’s not mine? What if it’s a gangster’s? What if he comes looking for it?”
Dee’s grin faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But for now, we have three million dollars in gold sitting on my kitchen table. Let’s not overthink this.”
Karina sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know, Dee. This feels wrong. I need to figure out where this came from. I need answers.”
Dee’s hands went for Karina’s collar. “Listen to me.”
Karina frowned, her voice uncertain. “I don’t know. Maybe I should find out more. I have the key to Henry’s construction site. Maybe there are answers there.”
Dee’s eyes narrowed, her expression suspicious. “You’re not thinking of giving this back, are you?”
Karina shook her head. “I don’t know. But I need to find out more. I can’t just keep this without knowing where it came from.”
Dee sighed, her excitement fading.
Karina nodded, her mind made up. She carefully poured the coins back into the bag, threw it over her shoulder almost making her fall over and headed for the door. She needed answers. And she was going to find them. Turning to her friend, her fixed gaze broke into a frown. “Just wait for me here.”
As the door slammed shut, Dee collapsed on her couch, hands covering her face.
Within the hour, Karina was standing outside Henry’s construction site, the key clutched tightly in her hand. The site was quiet, the machines silent, the workers gone for the day. She took a deep breath and inserted the key into the lock, the gate creaking open.
She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the area. The site was a maze of half-finished buildings and piles of materials. She needed to find Henry’s office. She needed to find answers.
As she walked through the site, her mind raced. What had Henry been involved in? Why had he hidden the gold? And what was she going to do with it?
The questions swirled in her mind, each one more unsettling than the last. But she knew one thing for sure: she couldn’t keep the gold. Not without knowing where it came from. Not without knowing the truth.
Karina’s heart pounded as she reached Henry’s office. She inserted the key into the lock and pushed the door open, her eyes scanning the room. It was cluttered, papers and blueprints scattered across the desk. She stepped inside, her mind racing.
She needed to find answers. The mystery was ever-evolving.
Chapter 4: The Assassin
Karina sat in Henry’s trailer at the construction site, the faint hum of the computer fan the only sound in the cramped space. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind racing as she tried to guess the password to his computer. She’d tried everything—his birthday, his favorite sports team, even his childhood dog’s name. Nothing worked. Finally, in a moment of desperation, she typed in her own name.
The screen unlocked.
Karina froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her name. The password was her name. A wave of emotion crashed over her—grief, love, regret. She stared at the screen, her vision blurring with tears. For a moment, she allowed herself to remember the good times with Henry, the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d said her name. But the moment passed quickly, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease. What was she about to find?
She clicked through his emails, her heart pounding. Most of them were mundane—work-related messages, receipts, spam. But then she saw it: a recent conversation with an unnamed contact.
The subject line read: “Final Arrangements.”
Karina’s stomach burned as she opened the email. The messages were cryptic, but one thing was clear: Henry had been communicating with someone about something secret. Something big. The last message from the mystery person read:
“I’ll send the pictures. You’ll see what’s at stake.”
Karina’s mind raced. What pictures? What was at stake? She hesitated for only a moment before typing a reply, pretending to be Henry: “Send them. Now.”
The response came almost immediately. Attached were several photos. Karina clicked on the first one, her heart pounding. The image loaded slowly, and when it finally appeared, she felt like her entire universe had been flipped on its head.
It was a photo of a pregnant woman’s stomach, her hands cradling the curve of her belly. The next photo was a close-up of an ultrasound image. The final photo was a handwritten note:
“You’re going to be a daddy soon. Don’t forget us.”
Karina’s hands flew to her mouth, a strangled sob escaping her lips. She felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Henry had been lying to her. He had another life, another family. The man she thought she knew—the man she had loved—was a stranger.
Tears streamed down her face as she slammed the laptop shut. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She had to get out of there. She grabbed her keys and bolted from the trailer, her mind a whirlwind of pain and anger.
---
Dee was pacing the living room, her nerves on edge. Karina had been gone for what seemed like hours, and the bag of gold was still weighing heavy on her mid, taunting her. She couldn’t stop thinking about what they could do with the money. The possibilities were endless. But deep down, she knew something was wrong. Karina had been acting strange, and Dee couldn’t shake the feeling that they were in over their heads.
The sound of the door opening made her jump. She turned, expecting to see Karina, but instead, a hulking figure filled the doorway. It was the thug from the bank—the one with the scarred face and mismatched features. His presence was like a storm cloud, dark and suffocating.
Dee’s heart stopped. “W-who are you? What do you want?”
The thug stepped inside, his eyes cold and calculating. “Where’s the gold?”
Dee’s mind raced. She had to think fast. “Karina took it. She left for Henry’s trailer. She has it. Please, don’t hurt me. Go get her.”
The thug’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “You’re lying.”
Dee fell to her knees, her hands trembling. “I’m not! I swear! She has it. Please, just… believe me. She left with it. I have nothing to do with this.”
The thug raised an eyebrow, amused by her desperation. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at her, his finger tightening on the trigger. But when he pulled it, there was only a hollow click. The chamber was empty. He looked down at the barrel of his gun, bewildered and amused at the same time, and he laughed a wretched, cracked laugh.
Dee’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope sparking in her chest. “Please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll… I’ll…” She hesitated, then blurted out, “I’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t kill me.”
The thug smirked, lowering the gun. “Whatever I want, huh?”
Dee nodded frantically, tears streaming down her face. Her hands made it to the zipper of his old dusty jeans and she looked up at him with what she thought was her best seductive glance in such a moment of desperation. “Yes. Anything. Please.”
The thug’s smirk turned into a cruel grin. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light. Before Dee could react, he grabbed her by the hair and plunged the knife under her jaw. Her eyes widened in shock, a gurgling sound escaping her lips as she collapsed to the floor.
The thug wiped the blade on his pants and turned to leave, his work done. Dee lay motionless, her blood pooling on the floor.
---
Karina sped down the highway, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her mind was a blur of emotions—grief, anger, betrayal. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she couldn’t go back to Dee’s apartment. Not yet. Not until she figured out what to do.
But as she glanced in the rearview mirror, her heart stopped. A black SUV was tailing her, its headlights glaring in the darkness. She recognized the driver immediately—the thug from the bank. She knew in that moment she should never have dismissed her suspicions of that man when she saw him outside the bank, and realized for a moment she was now in a game where she was not going to be able to let any suspicion get past her.
Panic surged through her veins. She pressed down on the gas pedal, her car lurching forward. The SUV followed, closing the distance between them. Karina swerved in and out of traffic, her heart pounding as she tried to lose him. But the thug was relentless, his SUV weaving through the cars with terrifying precision.
The chase led them through the city, onto back roads, and finally onto a deserted stretch of highway. Karina’s car was faster, but the thug’s SUV was more powerful. He rammed her from behind, sending her car spinning out of control. She slammed on the brakes, her tires screeching as she came to a stop.
The thug’s SUV skidded to a halt behind her. Karina fumbled for her phone, but before she could dial 911, the thug was at her door, yanking it open. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the car, slamming her face into the hood.
“Where’s the gold?” he snarled, his breath hot on her neck.
Karina struggled, her vision blurring from the impact. “I-I—“ she was about to tell him the 3-ton bag of gold was making a crater in the back seat of her car. But then, a greater instinct overcame her and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had to be smart and keep her mouth shut or else her own life was at stake. What was stopping him from killing her once he had the gold?
The thug slammed her face into the hood again, his grip tightening. “Don’t lie to me!”
Karina’s hand flailed, searching for something—anything—to defend herself. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the thug’s gun, still tucked into his waistband. With a surge of adrenaline, she grabbed it and twisted around, pressing the barrel against his chest.
The thug’s eyes widened in shock. He didn’t have time to react before Karina pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the night, and the thug crumpled to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.
Karina dropped the gun, her hands shaking wildly. She stumbled back to her car, her mind racing. Her reflection in the rear view mirror showed a fat bump on her lip and a bruise above her eyebrow. She had to get back to Dee. She had to make sure her friend was okay.
---
Karina burst into Dee’s apartment, her heart pounding. “Dee! Dee, are you—”
Her voice caught in her throat as she saw the scene before her. Dee lay on the floor, her blood staining the carpet. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Karina fell to her knees, a scream tearing from her throat. She cradled Dee’s lifeless body, her tears falling onto her friend’s face. “No… no, no, no…”
The bag of gold sat in her car, calling to her, calling so loudly it rang in her ears. Karina wiped the tears and snot from her face, her grief turning to rage. This was what it had cost. This was the price of Henry’s lies, Lorenzo’s greed, and her own naivety.
She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know where to go. But one thing was clear: this wasn’t over. Not yet.
Chapter 5: Raymond
The door creaked open, heavy and slow, like it didn’t want to let him in. Raymond stepped inside, the smell of blood hitting him before he saw it. Johnny was on the floor, a dark pool spreading beneath him, his face pale and slick with sweat. His breath came in shallow gasps, and his eyes were wide, pleading.
“Johnny,” Raymond said, his voice low and rough. He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over his friend’s body, unsure where to touch, where it wouldn’t hurt. “Who did this to you?”
Johnny’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His hand twitched, reaching for Raymond, then fell limp.
“Ambulance,” Raymond muttered, pulling out his phone. He dialed, his fingers trembling. The operator’s voice was calm, too calm, and Raymond snapped. “He’s dying! You understand? He’s dying right now!”
He hung up. They’d take too long. They always did. He grabbed Johnny under the arms, dragging him toward the door. Johnny groaned, a sound that cut through Raymond like a knife. “Hang on, man. Just hang on.”
The car was outside, an old beat-up sedan that Johnny had bought for a few hundred bucks. Raymond heaved him into the passenger seat, blood smearing the upholstery. He slammed the door and got behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life.
He drove fast, too fast, the city lights blurring past. Johnny’s head lolled against the window, his breathing shallow. Raymond glanced at him, then back at the road. “Stay with me, Johnny. Stay with me.”
The sirens came out of nowhere, flashing lights in the rearview mirror. Raymond cursed under his breath. He didn’t have time for this. He pressed the gas harder, weaving through traffic, the cops close behind.
The hospital loomed ahead, its lights bright and sterile. Raymond skidded to a stop at the entrance, throwing the car into park. He jumped out, pulling Johnny from the seat. Medics were already running toward them, a stretcher between them.
“He’s been stabbed,” Raymond said, his voice tight. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
They took Johnny from him, loading him onto the stretcher, rushing him inside. Raymond followed, but a hand on his chest stopped him.
“Sir, you need to stay here,” a medic said.
Raymond stared at him, then at Johnny, disappearing through the doors. He nodded, stepping back. The cops were there now, their hands on their guns, their voices sharp.
“Hands where we can see them,” one of them said.
Raymond raised his hands, his jaw clenched. “You in this country legally?” one of the cops asked. They patted him down, cuffed him, read him his rights. He didn’t listen. He kept his eyes on the hospital doors, waiting, hoping.
A doctor came out, his face grim. He shook his head. Raymond closed his eyes, his chest tight.
“Name?” one of the cops asked.
“Raymond Avila,” he said, his voice hollow.
They ran his name, and he knew what they’d find. Ex-con. Homeless. A man with nothing to lose. “You were homeless and then you got locked up in California, huh?” One of the cops said, grinning, slapping Raymond’s driver’s license in the palm of his hand. “Well, now you’re getting locked up in Houston. Welcome back to Texas.” They took him away, the cuffs biting into his wrists.
---
The next day, the sun was too bright, the world too loud. Raymond sat in the passenger seat of Jorge’s car, the old man’s voice a steady hum beside him. Jorge was talking, always talking, about second chances and opportunities. Raymond stared out the window, his mind elsewhere.
“You’re an American citizen,” Jorge said, his hands tight on the wheel. “You were born here. That means something. You have every chance to make something of yourself.”
Raymond didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. He felt hollow, empty, like all the life had been drained out of him.
Jorge glanced at him, then back at the road. “What do you want to do with your life, Raymond?”
Raymond shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t just drift forever,” Jorge said. “You need a purpose. Something to work toward. You’re not going to find answers going to be homeless in California. Your home is here. You belong in Houston.”
Raymond didn’t respond. He didn’t have a purpose. He didn’t have anything.
Jorge read his mind. “You have a purpose, Raymond. That’s what I saw in you when I was introduced to you through the program. That’s what I could tell when we were writing eachother back and forth. You’re meant for great things. And I’m going to help you figure out what they are.”
Jorge leaned back in his chair, a cup of coffee steaming in his hands. The morning light filtered through the window, casting a warm glow in Jorge’s beaten-up Ford pick up. Raymond sat silent, his eyes fixed in front of him. Jorge had been talking for a while now, his voice steady, his words measured. He spoke of Houston, of the city they lived in, of the world as he saw it.
“Houston,” Jorge began, his voice carrying the weight of years, “is a city of contradictions. It’s a place where the skyline gleams with glass and steel, where the oil money flows like water. But it’s also a place where people sleep under bridges, where children go to bed hungry. It’s a city of wealth and poverty, side by side, and no one seems to care.”
He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes distant. “In 2020, they said things would change. They said the world was waking up. But what did we get? More of the same. Even with Trump gone. The rich got richer, the poor got poorer. The system, it’s rigged, Raymond. It’s designed to keep people like us down, to keep us in our place.”
Raymond glanced up, his expression unreadable. Jorge continued, his voice rising with passion. “They talk about freedom, about opportunity. But what freedom is there when you’re working three jobs just to pay the rent? What opportunity is there when the schools are falling apart, when the hospitals are overcrowded, when the streets are filled with violence?”
He set his cup down, leaning forward. “I’m a Christian, Raymond. I believe in the teachings of Christ, in love, in compassion, in helping those in need. But I also see the world as it is. And what I see is a system that values profit over people, that values power over justice. It’s a system that needs to change.”
Raymond shifted in his seat, his voice low. “And how’s that gonna happen?”
Jorge smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “It starts with people, Raymond. It starts with us. We have to care for each other, to lift each other up. We have to fight for what’s right, even when it’s hard. And we have to believe that change is possible.”
He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Some people call me a communist, you know. They say I want to tear down the system, to destroy what we have. But that’s not true. I don’t want to destroy. I want to build. I want to build a world where everyone has a chance, where no one is left behind. A world where we share what we have, where we take care of each other. Is that so wrong?”
Raymond didn’t answer. He looked down at his hands, his mind racing. Jorge leaned back, his voice softening. “Houston is a city of contradictions, Raymond. But it’s also a city of hope. There are good people here, people who care, people who are trying to make a difference. And if we can come together, if we can fight for what’s right, then maybe, just maybe, we can build something better.”
He stood, placing a hand on Raymond’s shoulder. “It’s not going to be easy. But nothing worth doing ever is. We just have to keep fighting, keep believing. And maybe, one day, we’ll see the change we’re fighting for.”
Raymond nodded, his eyes still downcast. Jorge squeezed his shoulder, then took his hand away, leaving Raymond alone with his thoughts. The weight of Jorge’s words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. And for the first time in a long time, Raymond felt something stir within him, something he hadn’t felt in years.
Hope.
Jorge pulled the car over, stopping in front of an empty lot. Weeds grew through the cracks in the pavement, and a chain-link fence surrounded it. “This,” Jorge said, pointing, “is my dream. A community youth center. A place where kids can go, stay out of trouble, learn something.”
Raymond looked at the lot, then at Jorge. “How you gonna do that?”
“I’ll convince people,” Jorge said. “Influential people. People with money. I’ll make them see the value in it. I’ll make them care.”
Raymond nodded, but he didn’t believe it. People didn’t care. Not really.
Jorge kept talking, his voice rising with passion. “It’s my mission, Raymond. To save people. To give them a second chance. The human spirit, it’s resilient. It can overcome anything, if given the opportunity.”
Raymond didn’t say anything. He didn’t believe in the human spirit. He didn’t believe in much of anything.
They drove on, Jorge’s words filling the silence. Raymond tuned him out, his mind drifting. They arrived at Jorge’s house, a small, weathered place with a sagging porch. Jorge led him inside, introducing him to his grandchildren.
Nelson was eight, Vanni was ten, and Sebastian was around Raymond’s age. They stared at him, their eyes wide and curious. Nelson and Vanni took to him quickly, their laughter bright and infectious. Sebastian hung back, his arms crossed, his eyes dark.
“This is Raymond,” Jorge said. “He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
Sebastian didn’t say anything. He just stared at Raymond, his expression unreadable.
Raymond nodded at him, but Sebastian didn’t nod back. He turned and walked away, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor.
Jorge sighed. “He’ll come around. He’s just... protective. And he’s doesn’t speak a lot of English, Sebastian. He has only been in this country for two years. So maybe you two can make friends, you teach him to speak American and he can help you with your Spanish.”
Raymond didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of it. He sat down on the couch, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes staring at nothing. The weight of everything pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting.
Jorge sat beside him, his voice soft. “You’ll find your way, Raymond. Just give it time.”
Raymond didn’t answer. He didn’t believe in time. He didn’t believe in second chances. He just sat there, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and wondered if it would ever lift.
Chapter 6: Lorenzo
The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of Jorge’s house, casting a warm glow over the cluttered living room. Raymond sat at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of eggs and chorizo. Nelson and Vanni were already buzzing around him, their voices high and excited.
“Raymond, did you really live in California?” Nelson asked, his eyes wide. “Was it like the movies? Did you see any celebrities?”
Raymond smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, man. It’s not all palm trees and Hollywood. Mostly just… people trying to get by.”
Vanni leaned in, her elbows on the table. “Is it true you went to jail? What was that like? Did you have to fight people?”
Before Raymond could answer, Jorge stepped in, his voice firm but gentle. “Hey, hey. Enough with the questions. Let the man eat in peace.”
The kids groaned but backed off, retreating to the living room where Sebastian sat on the couch, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the TV. He hadn’t said much since Raymond arrived, and the tension between them was thick. Sebastian glanced over, his expression hard.
“¿Cuándo vas a conseguir un trabajo, huh?” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Raymond to hear. “No puedes quedarte aquí sin hacer nada.”
Raymond stiffened, his jaw tightening. He understood enough Spanish to catch the gist. Before he could respond, Jorge stepped in, his voice calm but firm.
“Sebastian, basta. Raymond’s got enough on his plate without you adding to it.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes but didn’t push it. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, muttering something in Spanish as he left. Jorge sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair.
“Don’t mind him,” he said to Raymond. “He still…..misses his parents. He’ll come around.”
Raymond nodded, but he didn’t believe it. He could feel Sebastian’s resentment like a weight in the room, and he didn’t blame him. He was a stranger, crashing in their home, eating their food. He didn’t belong here.
Jorge clapped him on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve got something for you. A job. It’s not glamorous, but it’s a start.”
Raymond raised an eyebrow. “What kind of job?”
“Meat-packing plant,” Jorge said. “It’s hard work, but it’s honest. And it’ll put some money in your pocket.”
Raymond frowned. “Why can’t I work with Sebastian? He’s got a job, right?”
Jorge hesitated, then shook his head. “Sebastian’s job… it’s not for you. Trust me, you will do well at this job.”
Raymond didn’t argue, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Jorge was holding something back. He finished his breakfast in silence, then followed Jorge out to the garage. The space was packed with boxes, stacked floor to ceiling, filled with clothes, canned goods, and household items.
“What’s all this?” Raymond asked, picking up a box labeled “Donations.”
“Stuff for people,” Jorge said, his voice soft. “People who need it. I hold onto it until they’re ready.”
Vanni appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed. “Abuelito helps a lot of people,” she said proudly. “He’s like… a superhero.”
Jorge chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Not a superhero, mija. Just trying to do my part.”
Raymond didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. Jorge was a good man, trying to make a difference. And here he was, just taking up space.
---
The meat-packing plant was exactly what Raymond expected: cold, loud, and reeking of blood. He stood on the line, his hands numb from the icy water, his back aching from the repetitive motions. The other workers, mostly immigrants, chattered in Spanish, their voices blending with the hum of machinery.
At first, Raymond tried to keep to himself, focusing on the work. But it didn’t take long for the teasing to start. The workers, thinking he didn’t understand, made jokes at his expense.
“Mira este gringo,” one of them said, laughing. “Parece que nunca ha trabajado en su vida.”
Another chimed in. “¿Crees que puede aguantar? Se va a ir llorando antes del almuerzo.”
Raymond clenched his jaw, his hands tightening around the knife he was using to trim fat from the meat. He understood every word, but he tried to ignore it. He didn’t want trouble. Not here.
But then one of them made a crack about Johnny.
“Dicen que su amigo Johnny no aguantó ni un cuchillito,” the man said, grinning. “¿Qué tal si le damos una probadita a este también?”
Something inside Raymond snapped. He turned, his fist connecting with the man’s nose before he even realized what he was doing. The man stumbled back, blood streaming down his face, and the room erupted into chaos.
By the time the supervisor arrived, Raymond was already being escorted out, his face burning with shame. He didn’t even bother to argue. He just grabbed his things and left, the weight of failure pressing down on him like a stone.
---
That afternoon, Raymond sat in Jorge’s car, staring at the neighborhood picnic in progress. The laughter and music felt like a world away, a world he didn’t belong to. He wanted to drive away, to disappear, but he didn’t have anywhere to go.
Finally, he got out of the car and walked over, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Jorge spotted him immediately, waving him over.
“Raymond! Come meet some folks from the church.” He pulled Raymond in closer to him and whispered into his ear: “There may be some people here that could help me with my dream to build the community center!”
Raymond forced a smile, shaking hands and nodding politely as Jorge introduced him. But he could feel their eyes on him, their curiosity and judgment. He didn’t belong here.
He managed to slip away after a few minutes, wandering toward the food table. That’s when he saw them: two thugs in suits, harassing an elderly church worker.
“This is garbage,” one of them said, poking at a tray of tamales. “You expect people to eat this?”
The church worker, a frail woman with silver hair, tried to placate them. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re doing our best.”
“Your best isn’t good,” the other man sneered. “I’d be embarrassed to serve this shit.”
Raymond felt a surge of anger. He stepped forward, his voice low but firm. “Hey. Back off.”
The men turned to him, their eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you?” one of them demanded.
“Someone who doesn’t like seeing people get bullied,” Raymond shot back.
The men exchanged a glance, then laughed. “You got a problem, huh?” one of them said, stepping closer. “You don’t have anything better to do?”
Before Raymond could respond, a familiar voice cut through the tension.
“Hey, hey, hey! What’s going on here?”
Raymond turned, and his breath caught in his throat. It was Lorenzo. His childhood friend. The man who had once been his partner in crime, his brother in arms. Lorenzo looked different now—older, heavier, his hair slicked back, his suit tailored to perfection. But his smile was the same, wide and easy, his eyes sharp and calculating.
“Raymond?” Lorenzo said, his voice full of surprise and delight. “Is that you?”
Raymond nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Lorenzo. Damn, it’s been a long time.”
They slapped hands together, the gesture familiar and comforting. Lorenzo pulled him into a quick hug, clapping him on the back. “Man, I heard some crazy rumors about you. Locked up in California? Homeless? Tell me that’s not true.”
Raymond’s smile faded. “Nah. I don’t know what you heard.”
Lorenzo’s expression softened. “I heard about Johnny. I’m sorry, man. That’s rough.”
Raymond nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. It’s been… hard.”
Lorenzo studied him for a moment, then grinned again. “Well, you’re here now. That’s what matters. And look at you, standing up to these clowns.” He gestured to the two thugs, who had backed off, their bravado fading under Lorenzo’s gaze. “Still got that fire in you, huh?”
Raymond shrugged. “Guess so.”
Lorenzo laughed, then turned to the thugs. “Get out of here. And show some respect next time, huh?”
The men muttered something under their breath but didn’t argue. They walked away, their heads down, their swagger gone.
Lorenzo turned back to Raymond, his smile widening. “So, what are you up to these days? Where do you work?”
“I’m, uhh, you know, just trying to do honest work. You know me, I cleaned my life up. Everybody knows this.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed. “What do you do?”
Raymond awkwardly nodded his head. “Just…packing meat at the plant, you know…”
A look of pity and disgust washed over Lorenzo’s bronzed face. “Working at a meat-packing plant? That’s not you, man. You’re better than that.”
Raymond hesitated. “I don’t do that old stuff anymore, Lorenzo. No violence, no illegal work. I’m trying to… I don’t know. Start over.”
Lorenzo nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I get it. But you don’t have to start at the bottom, man. You’ve got skills. You’ve got brains. You just need the right opportunity.”
Raymond frowned. “What are you saying?”
Lorenzo leaned in, his voice dropping. “I’ve got a place. A bar. It’s legit, mostly. But I could use someone like you. Someone I can trust. You come by tonight, we’ll talk. No pressure, just… see what’s up.”
Raymond hesitated. He didn’t trust Lorenzo, not entirely. But he didn’t have many options. And the thought of having a real job, a real chance, was tempting.
“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll come by.”
Lorenzo grinned. “Good. I’ll text you the address.”
Raymond shook his head. “I don’t have a phone.”
Lorenzo’s eyebrows shot up. “No phone? Damn, man, you really are starting from scratch. Alright, I’ll write it down for you. And hey, you got a car?”
Raymond shook his head again.
Lorenzo laughed, shaking his head. “You need a job, Raymond. A real job. And I’m going to get you one.”
Before Raymond could respond, Jorge appeared, his expression tense. “Raymond, can I talk to you for a moment?”
Raymond nodded, stepping away from Lorenzo. Jorge led him a few feet away, his voice low. “I didn’t know you knew Lorenzo.”
Raymond shrugged. “We grew up together. Why?”
Jorge hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Lorenzo. “Just… be careful, okay? He’s a busy man…just worry about your own affairs.”
Raymond frowned. “What do you mean?”
Jorge shook his head. “Nothing. Just… be careful.”
Raymond nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere. Lorenzo’s offer hung in the air, tempting and dangerous. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t keep living like this. He needed a way out. And maybe, just maybe, Lorenzo could give it to him.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the park, Raymond made his decision. He would go to Lorenzo’s bar. He would hear him out. And then… well, he would figure it out from there.
The weight of the world still pressed down on him, but for the first time in a long time, he felt a flicker of something. Not hope, exactly. But possibility.
Chapter 7: The God of Gold
Raymond’s sleep was restless, plagued by visions of Johnny. In his dream, Johnny was on the floor again, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide and pleading. Raymond reached for him, but his hands passed through Johnny’s body like smoke. Johnny’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Then, suddenly, the scene shifted. Raymond was the one on the floor, a shadowy figure standing over him, a knife glinting in the dim light. He woke up with a start, kicking and punching at the air. His foot connected with the bed frame, and with a loud crack, it collapsed beneath him.
He sat up, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. The room was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the nightmare, but the image of Johnny’s lifeless eyes lingered.
The next morning, Raymond felt off. His head was heavy, his thoughts scattered. He sat at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of eggs and chorizo. Vanni and Nelson were already buzzing around him, their energy relentless.
“Raymond, did you really live in California?” Nelson asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
Raymond forced a smile. “Yeah, kid. You always gonna ask me the same thing?”
Vanni leaned in, her elbows on the table. “What did you go to jail for?”
Raymond’s smile faltered. Before he could answer, Jorge stepped in, his voice firm but gentle. “Hey, hey. Enough with the questions. Let the man eat in peace for once.”
“¿Cómo está tu nuevo trabajo?” Sebastian muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Raymond’s Spanish was broken, but he understood enough. “Está bien,” he replied, his voice flat. “No es tan malo.”
Sebastian snorted, turning back to the TV. Raymond clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He didn’t need this kid’s attitude, not today.
After breakfast, Raymond turned to Jorge. “Can I borrow your car today? I need to get to work.”
Jorge hesitated, then nodded. “Sure, but be careful with it. That old thing’s on its last legs.”
Raymond nodded, grabbing the keys from the hook by the door. He didn’t mention where he was really going after work. He didn’t think Jorge would approve. Nelson seemed agitated, his small hands gripping the edge of the table as he leaned in.
“Raymond,” Nelson said, his voice high and urgent, “there’s this kid at school, Marcus. He’s always picking on me. He calls me names, trips me in the hallway, and yesterday he stole my lunch money. I don’t know what to do.”
Raymond glanced up, his eyes narrowing. He wasn’t in the mood for this, but the kid’s desperation tugged at something deep inside him. He leaned back in his chair, his voice low and rough. “You wanna know what to do? Punch him. Right in the face. Bullies don’t stop until you make ‘em stop.”
Nelson’s eyes widened, a mix of fear and excitement flashing across his face. “But… what if he hits me back?”
Raymond shrugged, his tone cold. “Then you hit him harder. You don’t let anyone push you around, kid. Ever.”
Vanni, sitting across the table, frowned. “That’s not good advice, Raymond. Nelson could get in trouble.”
Raymond shot her a look. “You want him to keep getting picked on? Sometimes you gotta fight fire with fire.”
Jorge, who had been quietly sipping his coffee at the head of the table, set his cup down with a soft clink. His voice was calm but firm. “Raymond, violence isn’t the answer. Nelson, you don’t need to fight Marcus. You tell a teacher, or you walk away. Fighting only makes things worse.”
Raymond scoffed, leaning forward. “Yeah, because telling a teacher always works. Kid’s gotta learn to stand up for himself.”
Sebastian, who had been sitting silently on the couch, turned his head sharply. His voice was low, his English broken but biting. “You think you know everything, huh? You think punching people solves all your problems? That’s why you’re here, living in our house, with nothing.”
Raymond’s jaw tightened. He turned to face Sebastian, his eyes hard. “You got something to say, say it to my face.”
Sebastian stood, his arms crossed, his expression dark. “I’m saying you don’t belong here. You’re just… taking up space. You think you’re tough, but you’re nothing.”
Raymond pushed his chair back, standing to his full height. The tension in the room was thick, suffocating. Jorge stepped between them, his voice rising. “Enough! Both of you, sit down. This is not how we handle things in this house.”
Raymond glared at Sebastian, his fists clenched at his sides. “Kid’s got a big mouth for someone who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Sebastian shot back, his voice rising. “I know enough. You’re a loser. You always will be.”
Raymond took a step forward, but Jorge blocked him, his hand pressing against Raymond’s chest. “That’s enough, Raymond. Sit down.”
For a moment, Raymond hesitated, his eyes locked on Sebastian. Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned and grabbed his plate, dumping the remains of his breakfast into the trash. “I’m out of here,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.
Jorge sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Sebastian, you need to show some respect. Raymond’s been through a lot.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath in Spanish. “No es mi problema.”
Jorge turned to Nelson, his voice softening. “And you, mijo, don’t listen to Raymond. Violence isn’t the answer. You’re better than that.”
Nelson nodded, but his eyes were still wide, his mind clearly racing. Vanni reached over, squeezing his hand. “It’s gonna be okay, Nelson. We’ll figure it out.”
Raymond stepped outside, the cool morning air hitting his face. He leaned against Jorge’s car, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The confrontation with Sebastian had left him on edge, his nerves raw. He didn’t need this—not today. He had enough on his plate without some kid giving him attitude.
But as he stood there, the weight of his own words to Nelson settled on him. ‘Punch him. Right in the face.’ He knew it was bad advice, but it was the only thing he knew. Violence had always been his answer, his way of surviving. And now, here he was, passing that same toxic mindset onto a kid who didn’t deserve it.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He didn’t have time for this. He had work, and later, he had to meet Lorenzo. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t keep living like this. He needed a way out.
The gas station was on the outskirts of town, a run-down place with flickering fluorescent lights and a faint smell of stale coffee. Raymond stood behind the counter, his mind elsewhere. He felt mentally off, his thoughts jumbled, his emotions raw. Every time a customer walked in, he tensed, especially when it was a good-looking woman. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like they could see right through him.
The gas station was a dump, no doubt about it. The fluorescent lights cast a sickly glow over the aisles of overpriced snacks and dusty car accessories. Raymond stood behind the counter, his hands resting on the worn surface, his mind elsewhere. He felt off and every time the bell above the door chimed, signaling another customer, he tensed. He hated this place. He hated the smell of stale coffee and burnt motor oil. He hated the way the manager, a balding, pot-bellied man named Carl, always seemed to be breathing down his neck.
Carl had a way of making Raymond feel small, like he was nothing more than a nuisance. And today, Carl was in rare form.
Raymond had just finished ringing up an elderly black woman who had come in to fill up her tank. She’d been kind, smiling at him as she handed over her cash, and Raymond had let her pump her gas before paying. It was a small act of trust, something he’d done a dozen times before without issue. But as soon as the woman left, Carl appeared out of nowhere, his face red, his voice sharp.
“Raymond!” Carl barked, his tone dripping with disdain. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Raymond frowned, his patience already wearing thin. “What are you talking about?”
Carl jabbed a finger toward the pumps outside. “You let that woman pump before paying. Again. How many times do I have to tell you? No pumping before paying!”
Raymond clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. “She’s a regular. She’s always paid before. I was just—”
“I don’t care if she’s the damn pope!” Carl interrupted, his voice rising. “You don’t let anyone pump before paying. Period. End of story.”
Raymond’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You said it was okay if it was an old lady. I was just following your rules.”
Carl’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a sneer. “I said it was okay if it was a white old lady. That woman out there? She’s not white. You let her pump before paying, and if you do it again, you’re fired. You understand me?”
Raymond felt a surge of anger, hot and sharp, rising in his chest. He took a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re really gonna stand there and tell me it’s okay to let some people pump before paying but not others? Based on the color of their skin? That’s messed up, man.”
Carl didn’t back down. He stepped closer, his face inches from Raymond’s, his breath reeking of stale coffee and cigarettes. “This is my store, and my rules. You don’t like it? Tough. You’re lucky I even gave you this job. You think anyone else would hire an ex-con like you? You’re nothing, Raymond. Nothing. And if you don’t start following the rules, you’ll be back on the streets where you belong.”
Raymond’s vision blurred, his fists trembling at his sides. He imagined grabbing Carl by the collar, slamming his head into the counter, beating him until he was a bloody pulp. He could almost feel the impact, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his knuckles. But he forced himself to stay still, his jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might shatter.
Carl must have seen the rage in Raymond’s eyes because he took a step back, his tone softening just enough to be condescending. “Look, Raymond, I’m just trying to run a business here. You need to follow the rules. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Raymond didn’t respond. He just stood there, his chest heaving, his mind racing. Carl gave him one last look, then turned and walked away, muttering something under his breath about “ungrateful employees.”
As soon as Carl was out of sight, Raymond grabbed the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside him. But it was no use. The anger was there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for an outlet.
He glanced at the clock. His shift wasn’t over for another three hours. Three more hours of this hell. Three more hours of Carl’s smug face and condescending tone. Three more hours of feeling like he was nothing.
Raymond closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. But he didn’t have a choice. Not yet, anyway. He needed this job, at least for now. But the thought of quitting, of walking out and never looking back, was becoming more and more tempting.
For now, though, he had to endure. He had to keep his head down and his mouth shut. But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before he snapped. And when he did, Carl better hope he wasn’t around to see it.
In the grocery aisle, two rednecks were arguing, their voices loud and slurred. One of them, a burly man with a beer belly, was holding a pack of pork chops.
“I’m tellin’ ya, man, I feel sick ‘cause I ate pork during Ramadan,” he said, his voice rising. “Even though I ain’t Muslim, there’s somethin’ in the earth’s magnetic field during Ramadan that makes your body reject pork.”
The other redneck, a skinny guy with a mullet, rolled his eyes. “That’s bullshit, man. This is America. We got freedom. We eat pork whenever we damn well please.”
The first redneck shook his head. “Nah, man, I’m serious. Maybe it’s Covid-19. I heard that messes with your head.”
“Covid ain’t real,” the skinny one shot back. “It’s all a hoax.”
Raymond clenched his fists, trying to block out their voices. He didn’t need this today. His manager, a balding man with a permanent scowl, appeared out of nowhere, his voice sharp.
“Raymond, why the hell are you letting these drunks hang around? Get ‘em out of here!”
Raymond nodded, stepping out from behind the counter. He approached the rednecks, his voice low but firm. “You guys need to leave. Now.”
The burly one glared at him. “Who the hell are you to tell us what to do?”
Raymond’s patience snapped. He grabbed the man by the arm, steering him toward the door. The redneck stumbled, cursing under his breath, but didn’t resist. The skinny one followed, muttering something about “damn Mexicans.”
On his break, Raymond called Lorenzo from the gas station phone. “Is today a good day for me to come by?” he asked, his voice low.
“Sure, man,” Lorenzo replied. “Come by at 11. We’ll talk.”
Raymond hung up, his mind racing. He didn’t know what he was getting into, but he didn’t have many options.
The drive home was a blur. Raymond’s mind was elsewhere, his thoughts jumbled. He nearly got into a road rage incident when a car cut him off, but he managed to keep his cool.
That evening, after dinner with Jorge and the kids, Raymond asked to borrow the car again. “I’ve got a date,” he lied. “Met a cute customer at the gas station.”
Jorge raised an eyebrow but handed over the keys. “Be careful, Raymond. Some of these women, all they want is a green card. And don’t stay out too late.”
Lorenzo’s bar was a Tex-Mex steakhouse, its neon sign flickering in the night. A beautiful woman stood outside, smoking a cigarette. She smiled at Raymond as he approached.
“You here to see Lorenzo?” she asked, her voice smooth.
Raymond nodded. “Yeah. He’s expecting me.”
She gestured toward the door. “Go on in.”
But as Raymond stepped inside, a massive man blocked his path. He was nearly seven feet tall, his arms crossed, his expression cold.
“We’re closed,” the man said, his voice deep and menacing.
Raymond frowned. “Lorenzo invited me. He’s expecting me.”
The man feigned confusion. “Lorenzo? Don’t know who you’re talking about. You need to leave.”
Raymond’s patience snapped. He shoved the man, hard. The giant stumbled back, surprised, but quickly recovered. He lunged at Raymond, but Raymond was faster. He ducked under the man’s swing, landing a solid punch to his gut. The man doubled over, and Raymond followed up with a knee to his face. The giant crumpled to the floor, groaning.
Lorenzo appeared out of nowhere, his two thugs close behind. He laughed, clapping Raymond on the back. “Damn, Raymond! Still got that fire as well as the crazy in you, huh?”
Raymond shrugged, his chest heaving. “He started it.”
Lorenzo grinned. “Come on, let’s talk.”
The Tex-Mex steakhouse was dimly lit, the kind of place where the shadows seemed to cling to the corners, hiding secrets. The air was thick with the smell of sizzling meat and spices, mingling with the faint tang of cigarette smoke. Lorenzo’s bar was closed for the night, the chairs upturned on the tables, the floor freshly mopped. The only light came from a single bulb hanging above the booth where Lorenzo and Raymond sat, their plates piled high with steak, rice, and beans. The food was rich, flavorful, but Raymond barely tasted it. His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts a tangled mess.
Lorenzo, on the other hand, was in his element. He leaned back in the booth, his tailored suit jacket slung over the back of the seat, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in intricate tattoos. He cut into his steak with precision, his movements smooth and deliberate. He was a man who exuded confidence, who seemed to command the room without even trying. And he was talking—always talking.
“So, Raymond,” Lorenzo began, his voice low and smooth, “where you staying these days? Last I heard, you were crashing on couches, living out of your car. That still the case?”
Raymond hesitated, his eyes fixed on his plate. He didn’t want to talk about this, not with Lorenzo. But he knew the man wouldn’t let it go. “I’m… staying with someone,” he said finally, his voice quiet.
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, his expression curious. “Someone? Who’s this someone? You got a girl or something?”
Raymond shook his head, his jaw tightening. “No. It’s… it’s this old man. Jorge. He’s letting me stay with him for a while.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Jorge, huh? Who’s Jorge? Some kind of saint? Or just a sucker?”
Raymond’s hands clenched into fists under the table, but he forced himself to stay calm. “He’s… he’s just a guy. He’s helping me out.”
Lorenzo leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes locked onto Raymond’s. “Helping you out? What, like charity? You taking handouts now, Raymond?”
Raymond’s face burned with shame, but he didn’t respond. He just stared at his plate, his mind racing. He didn’t want to admit it, not to Lorenzo. He didn’t want to admit that he was living off the kindness of a stranger, that he had nowhere else to go.
Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day. Raymond Avila, taking charity. Living with some old man like a lost puppy. What happened to you, man? You used to have pride.”
“You know, Raymond,” Lorenzo began, his voice low and smooth, “I heard about you living on the streets in California. Man, that’s rough. I’d rather take my gun and shoot myself than ever end up like that. It’s a matter of pride, you know? Self-respect. And not to mention, you’re an American citizen. There is nothing in this country that you can’t do and you go and give up on life. What happened, you finally lost it and went crazy?”
Raymond glanced up, his jaw tightening. He didn’t need Lorenzo’s pity, but he didn’t say anything. He just nodded, his eyes fixed on his plate.
Lorenzo continued, his tone almost philosophical. “But hey, I get it. People lose their souls out there. They fall prey to that shameless life, that desperation. And honestly, it’s what I’d expect from California. That place… it’s like a black hole. It sucks people in, chews them up, and spits them out. You’re lucky you got out when you did.”
“You remember that time we got into it with those guys from the north side?” Lorenzo asked, a grin spreading across his face. “What were their names? The Martinez brothers?”
Raymond glanced up, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I remember. They thought they could come into our neighborhood and take over. We showed them otherwise.”
Lorenzo laughed, a deep, hearty sound. “Man, we were crazy back then. You remember what you did to that one guy? What was his name? Benito?”
Raymond nodded, his smile fading slightly. “Yeah. I broke his nose. He was talking shit about my mom.”
Lorenzo’s grin widened. “That’s right. You didn’t even hesitate. Just walked up to him and bam! Right in the face. That’s what I always liked about you, Raymond. You didn’t take shit from anyone.”
Raymond didn’t respond. He just stared at his plate, his mind drifting back to those days. They had been young then, full of fire and fury. They had been caught between two worlds—American-born Mexican Americans, not quite accepted by either side. They had fought to carve out a place for themselves, to prove they belonged.
Lorenzo leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “You remember what it was like back then? Trying to fit in, but never really belonging? The white kids thought we were too Mexican, and the Mexican kids thought we were too American. We were stuck in the middle, man. Always fighting, always trying to prove ourselves.”
Raymond nodded, his voice quiet. “Yeah. I remember.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. “But we didn’t let it break us. We fought back. We made our own way. That’s what I always admired about you, Raymond. You never backed down. You never let anyone push you around.”
Raymond’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew Lorenzo was right, at least in part. They had fought back, but at what cost? They had been young and angry, full of fire and fury. But that fire had burned them, too. It had left scars, both visible and invisible.
Lorenzo leaned back again, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Raymond, I always thought we’d make it big. I thought we’d take over the world. But life had other plans, huh?”
Raymond didn’t respond. He just stared at his plate, his mind racing. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to explain the weight of the past, the scars it had left on him.
Lorenzo leaned forward again, his voice low and intense. “But hey, we’re still here, man. We’re still fighting. And that’s what matters. We’re survivors, Raymond. We’re fighters. And we’re gonna make it, no matter what.”
Raymond nodded, but he didn’t believe it. He didn’t know if he could keep fighting, if he could keep surviving. But he didn’t have a choice. Not yet, anyway. The rest of the meal passed in a blur, Lorenzo’s words filling the silence. Raymond barely tasted the food, his mind elsewhere. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew he couldn’t keep living like this.
Raymond forced a smile, nodding again. He didn’t trust Lorenzo, not entirely, but he couldn’t deny the man had a way with words. He made it sound like he cared, like he understood. But Raymond knew better. Lorenzo was a businessman, first and foremost. And right now, Raymond was a potential asset.
Lorenzo took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing as he studied Raymond. “You know, now that Trump’s out and Biden’s in, things are a little more relaxed in the trade. You ever hear of a thing called yeh DEA? They aren’t breathing down our necks as much. It’s a good time to be in the game.”
Raymond frowned, his voice cautious. “I thought you said you were legit now. That you didn’t do that stuff anymore.”
Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “I am legit, Raymond. Mostly. But you gotta adapt, you know? The world’s changing, and you gotta change with it. My philosophy? Never fight the government. You’re not gonna win that way. You win by joining them. You play by their rules, but you play smarter.”
He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Raymond’s. “You agree with me, don’t you?”
Raymond hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”
Lorenzo smiled, satisfied. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. You gotta be smart, Raymond. You gotta think ahead. That’s why I’m investing in gold. You know why?”
Raymond shook his head, his expression blank.
“Because gold is forever,” Lorenzo said, his voice rising with passion. “It’s stable. It’s reliable. And it’s a way to get back what the white man stole from us. You know how much gold they took from Mexico? From all of Latin America? Billions, man. Billions. And I’m gonna get it back. One way or another.”
Raymond raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re gonna get all the gold back?”
Lorenzo laughed, a deep, hearty sound. “Maybe not all of it. But I’m gonna get my share. And you could too, if you play your cards right.”
Raymond didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. Lorenzo’s confidence was intoxicating, but it also made him uneasy. He didn’t trust the man, not entirely. But he couldn’t deny the pull of his words, the promise of something more.
Lorenzo leaned back in the booth, his steak half-eaten, his glass of whiskey nearly empty. The dim light above them flickered slightly, casting shadows across his face as he stared at Raymond with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. He swirled the remaining whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly, before setting it down with a deliberate thud. His voice, low and smooth, carried the weight of years, of struggle, of a life built from nothing.
“You know, Raymond,” Lorenzo began, his tone almost reverent, “I used to think God was the only thing that could save us. Back when we were kids, running around the barrio, dodging cops and gangbangers, I’d pray every night. I’d beg God to get me out of that life, to give me something better. But you know what? God never showed up. Not for me. Not for us.”
He paused, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “But you know what did show up? Gold. Cold, hard, beautiful gold. That’s my God now, Raymond. Gold. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t care where you came from or what you’ve done. It just *is*. And if you’ve got enough of it, you’re untouchable.”
Raymond shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes flicking up to meet Lorenzo’s. He didn’t say anything, but Lorenzo didn’t need him to. This was his moment, his sermon, and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
“You remember what it was like, don’t you?” Lorenzo continued, his voice rising slightly. “Living in that tiny apartment with six people, sharing a bed with your brothers, eating beans and rice every damn night because that’s all we could afford. Pobrecitos, that’s what they called us. Poor little things. Like we were less than human. Like we didn’t deserve better.”
He leaned back again, his expression darkening. “I swore to myself back then, Raymond. I swore I’d never go back to that life. Never. And I haven’t. Because I found something better. Something real. Gold. It’s the great equalizer, man. It doesn’t care if you’re brown, white, or purple. It doesn’t care if you grew up in the barrio or Beverly Hills. If you’ve got it, you’ve got power. And if you don’t? Well, you’re just another pobrecito, begging for scraps.”
Lorenzo’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “That’s why I’m investing in gold, Raymond. It’s my future. My security. My freedom. Freedom, right? America. I’m not gonna let anyone take that away from me. Not the government, not the cartels, not anyone. Because once you’ve got gold, you’ve got options. You’ve got a way out.”
He paused, his gaze locking onto Raymond’s. “You remember what it was like, don’t you? Being stuck in that cycle, that never-ending grind of poverty and violence. You remember how it felt to want something more, to dream of something better. Well, this is it, man. This is the dream. And I’m not letting it go.”
Lorenzo leaned back again, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s not. You’ve gotta be smart. You’ve gotta be ruthless. But most of all, you’ve gotta believe in yourself. Believe that you deserve more than what they gave us. Because we do, Raymond. We deserve more.”
He raised his glass, the last of the whiskey catching the light. “To gold,” he said, his voice steady. “The only God I’ll ever need.”
Raymond didn’t raise his glass. He just sat there, his mind racing, his chest tight. Lorenzo’s words hung in the air, heavy and persistent. The feeling of possibility was returning.
Lorenzo leaned back again, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Raymond, you need a job. A real job. Nothing’s given in life. You gotta work for it. You gotta earn it. That’s the way the world works.”
Raymond nodded, his voice quiet. “I know.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. “Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re just drifting. You’re not the Raymond Avila I knew when we were in school, escaping from juvenile hall. You’re not going anywhere. You’re not building anything. You’re just… surviving. And that’s not enough, Raymond. You gotta have a purpose. You gotta have a plan.”
Raymond’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew Lorenzo was right, at least in part. He had been drifting, just trying to get by. But he didn’t know how to change that. He didn’t know where to start.
Lorenzo leaned forward again, his voice low and intense. “Let me tell you something about capitalism versus socialism, Ray. Capitalism is about opportunity. It’s about taking what’s yours, about building something from nothing. Socialism? That’s about giving up, about letting someone else take care of you. And that’s not you, Raymond. You’re not a socialist. You have no business in Cali. You’re a fighter. You’re a survivor. You just need the right opportunity.”
Raymond frowned, his voice cautious. “And you’re offering me that opportunity?”
Lorenzo smiled, his eyes gleaming. “I am. I’ve got a place for you, Raymond. A job. It’s legit, mostly. But it’s a start. It’s a way to get back on your feet, to start building something.”
Raymond hesitated, his mind racing. He didn’t know if he was ready to go back to that life, to the world of crime and danger. But he didn’t have many options. And the thought of having a real job, a real chance, was tempting.
“I don’t know, Lorenzo,” he said finally. “I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to that life.”
Lorenzo’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. “Don’t you remember what I said? I don’t believe in going against the government. If you work for me, you’ll always be on the right side of the law. You’ll be legit. You’ll be building something. And you’ll be getting paid.”
Raymond nodded, but he still wasn’t convinced. He didn’t trust Lorenzo, not entirely. But he didn’t have many options. And the thought of having a real job, a real chance, was tempting.
Lorenzo leaned back again, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Raymond, you gave me chills back there. When you took down that guy at the door. You’re like a bull, man. You’ve got that fire in you. That’s what I need. Someone who’s not afraid to fight, who’s not afraid to take what’s theirs.”
Raymond didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. Lorenzo’s words were flattering, but they also made him uneasy. He didn’t trust the man but he couldn’t deny the pull of his words, the promise of something more.
Lorenzo leaned forward again, his voice low and intense. “Think about it, Raymond. You’re living a low-class life. You’re working at a meat factory, barely making ends meet. Is that really what you want? Is that really all you’re worth?”
Lorenzo scowled, his eyes sharp. “You need a job, Raymond. A real job. Nothing’s given in life. You gotta work for it. Capitalism, socialism—it’s all the same. You gotta build for the future.”
Raymond nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t trust Lorenzo, but he didn’t have many options.
The next day, Raymond’s car broke down on the way to work. He took it to a garage, but the cost to fix it was more than he made in a week at the gas station. He felt the weight of the world pressing down on him, heavy and unrelenting.
Raymond had just finished counting the cash in his register at the end of his shift. He’d been distracted, his mind replaying the confrontation with Sebastian earlier that morning, and he’d miscounted. The drawer was short—twenty bucks, maybe thirty. Not a huge deal, but enough to set Carl off.
As soon as Carl saw the discrepancy, his face turned red, his voice sharp. “Raymond!” he barked, his tone dripping with disdain. “What the hell is this?”
Raymond frowned, his patience already wearing thin. “What are you talking about?”
Carl jabbed a finger at the cash register. “Your drawer’s short. Again. How many times do I have to tell you? You gotta pay attention!”
Raymond clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. “It was a mistake. I’ll cover it.”
“A mistake?” Carl sneered. “You’re full of mistakes, Raymond. You’re a walking tin can. I don’t know why I even bother with you.”
Raymond’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I said I’d cover it. What more do you want?”
Carl stepped closer, his face inches from Raymond’s, his breath reeking of stale coffee and cigarettes. “I want you to do your damn job! You think anyone else would hire an ex-con like you? You’re nothing, Raymond. Nothing. And if you don’t start following the rules, you’ll be back on the streets where you belong.”
Raymond’s vision blurred, his fists trembling at his sides. He imagined grabbing Carl by the collar, slamming his head into the counter, beating him until he was a bloody pulp. He could almost feel the impact, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his knuckles. But he forced himself to stay still, his jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might shatter.
Carl must have seen the rage in Raymond’s eyes because he took a step back, his tone softening just enough to be condescending. “Look, Raymond, I’m just trying to run a business here. You need to follow the rules. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Raymond didn’t respond. He just stood there, his chest heaving, his mind racing. Carl gave him one last look, then turned and walked away, muttering something under his breath about “junkies stealing money.”
As soon as Carl was out of sight, Raymond grabbed the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside him. But it was no use. The anger was there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for an outlet.
He glanced at the clock. His shift wasn’t over for another three hours. Three more hours of this hell. Three more hours of Carl’s smug face and condescending tone. Three more hours of feeling like he was nothing.
Raymond closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. But he didn’t have a choice. Not yet, anyway. He needed this job, at least for now. But the thought of quitting, of walking out and never looking back, was becoming more and more tempting.
The rest of the shift dragged on, each minute feeling like an hour. Raymond’s patience was wearing thinner by the second, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He tried to focus on the tasks at hand—restocking the shelves, cleaning the coffee machine, ringing up customers—but his mind kept drifting back to Carl’s words. You’re nothing, Raymond. Nothing.
The final straw came when Carl reappeared, this time to scold Raymond for another minor mistake. A customer had complained about the price of a pack of cigarettes, and Carl was livid.
“Raymond!” Carl barked, his voice sharp. “What the hell is wrong with you? You charged that guy the wrong price for the Marlboros. How many times do I have to tell you? You gotta pay attention!”
Raymond clenched his jaw, his hands trembling at his sides. “It was a mistake. I fixed it.”
“Another mistake?” Carl sneered. “This country is going to hell in a hand basket for all your generation and your mistakes, Raymond. You’re a walking bag of seed. I don’t know why I even bother with you.”
That was it. Raymond snapped. He grabbed Carl by the collar, his fingers digging into the fabric of the man’s shirt. Carl’s eyes widened in shock, but before he could say anything, Raymond flipped him over the counter. Carl landed hard on the floor, groaning in pain.
The gas station fell silent, the other customers and employees staring in shock. Raymond didn’t care. He grabbed a pack of Marlboros and a Red Bull from the shelf, then walked out, quitting on the spot.
As he started the engine of Jorge’s car, he imagined calling Lorenzo, taking him up on his offer. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t keep living like this. He needed a way out. And maybe, just maybe, Lorenzo could give it to him.
Chapter 8: The Pig
The sun hung low over Houston as Raymond pulled into Jorge's driveway, the weight of Lorenzo's words still heavy in his chest. The smell of frying plantains and simmering black beans greeted him as he stepped inside, the familiar warmth of Jorge's home wrapping around him like an old blanket.
"Raymond!" Jorge called from the kitchen. "Just in time. Help Nelson set the table."
The dining room was alive with movement - Vanni arranging flowers in a chipped vase, Sebastian scowling as he folded napkins, Nelson carefully counting out forks. Raymond grabbed a stack of plates, their ceramic edges worn smooth from years of use.
As he set the table, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Lorenzo: "You in or out?"
Raymond's fingers hovered over the screen. He glanced at Jorge humming in the kitchen, at Nelson's earnest face as he concentrated on placing each utensil just right. The smell of garlic and cumin filled the air, so different from the sterile scent of Lorenzo's world.
His thumb moved before he could second-guess himself: "In."
The response took hours to come. Through Jorge's blessing over the meal, through three helpings of ropa vieja, through Nelson's excited retelling of his school day. It wasn't until Raymond was washing dishes that his phone finally vibrated again.
"Meet me tomorrow. 8 AM. Don't be late."
Raymond dried his hands on a dish towel, the words burning in his pocket. He looked up to find Sebastian watching him from the doorway, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Problem?" Raymond asked, hanging the towel neatly.
Sebastian's jaw worked silently before he spat out, "Just don't drag my grandfather into whatever shit you're doing." He turned on his heel and left before Raymond could respond.
The night stretched long and restless. Raymond lay awake listening to the house settle around him - the creak of floorboards as Jorge checked on the children, the distant hum of traffic on the freeway, the occasional siren wailing through the Houston streets. Each sound seemed to pull him further from sleep, drawing him toward the morning and whatever waited with Lorenzo.
Midnight found Raymond kneeling in Sacred Heart Catholic Church, though he hadn't prayed since juvie. The scent of lemon polish and old incense clung to the confessional booth.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." His whisper stuck to the wood. "I think I'm about to do something unforgivable."
The priest's silhouette shifted behind the screen. "Violence?"
"Worse." Raymond pressed his forehead against the grille. "I know it's wrong. But I'll do it anyway."
A long silence. Then: "Then why confess?"
When dawn finally came, Raymond dressed quietly in the pale light filtering through his window. He paused at Nelson's door, watching the boy sleep peacefully, his small hands curled around a worn teddy bear. The sight lodged something sharp in Raymond's throat.
The kitchen light was already on when he came downstairs. Jorge stood at the stove, scrambling eggs in his usual methodical way. He didn't turn around as Raymond entered.
"You're up early," Jorge observed, his voice carefully neutral.
Raymond poured himself coffee, the rich aroma filling the silence between them. "Got a new job. Starting today."
Jorge's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "That so? What kind of work?"
The lie came easily. "Construction. Good pay."
The eggs sizzled in the pan. Jorge nodded slowly. "Be careful out there, mijo. The sun's hot this time of year."
Raymond studied the older man's profile - the deep lines around his eyes, the gray peppering his temples. Jorge knew. Of course he knew. But he wouldn't push. That wasn't his way.
"I will," Raymond promised, though they both knew it wasn't the heat he needed to worry about.
The eggs were perfect, as always. Raymond ate quickly, the silence between them comfortable despite everything. When he stood to leave, Jorge caught his wrist with surprising strength.
"Whatever path you choose," he said quietly, "remember you always have a home here."
Raymond nodded, the words sticking in his throat. He left before he could say something he'd regret.
—-
The sun hadn't fully risen when Raymond slipped out of Jorge's house, the screen door creaking behind him. He wasn't going to work—not the meat-packing plant, not the gas station nor the construction job. Today, he was Lorenzo's segundo. His right hand. His shadow.
Lorenzo was waiting in the parking lot of a taco truck, leaning against his black Escalade, already halfway through a cigarette. He grinned when he saw Raymond, tossing him a grease-stained paper bag.
"Breakfast of champions, cabrón," Lorenzo said. "Egg and chorizo. Just like the old days."
Raymond unwrapped the taco, the smell of fried meat and salsa hitting him like nostalgia. "Thought you'd be eating gold flakes by now."
Lorenzo laughed, slapping him on the back. "Gold's for saving, pendejo. Not for shitting out."
They ate in silence for a minute, the only sound the sizzle of the grill and the distant hum of Houston waking up. Then Lorenzo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded toward the car.
"Let's go. First day on the job, and I got you doing the most important work of all."
"What's that?"
Lorenzo grinned. "Waiting."
The Escalade rolled through the streets, the tinted windows shielding them from the morning glare. Raymond watched the city blur past—the strip malls, the pawn shops, the endless construction. Houston was always building, always tearing itself apart and putting itself back together.
Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You ever hear the saying, 'Hurry up and wait'?"
Raymond grunted. "Sounds like the army."
"Nah, hermano. It's the game. You rush to get in position, then you sit. And sit. And sit some more. Until the moment's right." He glanced at Raymond. "Patience is power."
Raymond didn't answer. Patience had never been his strong suit.
Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the wheel, eyes scanning the road.
"So anyway, lemme tell you all about waiting," he said. "It's an art, hermano. You ever watch a pig before slaughter? Just standing there, dumb and happy, not knowing it's already dead?"
Raymond chewed slowly. "Like the puerco waits to turn into chorizo?"
Lorenzo snapped his fingers. "Exacto. That's us right now. We're the butchers, not the pigs. But you gotta wait for the right moment to swing the knife."
Raymond stared out the window. He knew about waiting. Waiting in jail cells. Waiting for meals. Waiting for life to start.
Lorenzo's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, smirked, and gunned the engine.
"Now we go."
They pulled into the lot of an abandoned warehouse, the chain-link fence sagging under its own rust. Lorenzo killed the engine and leaned back. "Now we wait."
Lorenzo's phone buzzed after a short quiet moment.
"Now we go."
The warehouse was hidden in plain sight—just another nondescript building in Houston's industrial district, its rusted metal siding and cracked pavement giving no hint of the fortune inside. Lorenzo led Raymond through a side door, past two armed guards who nodded in silent recognition. The air inside was cool, dry, the hum of industrial dehumidifiers filling the space.
Then Raymond saw it.
A massive vault, thick steel gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Lorenzo punched in a code, twisted the wheel, and the door groaned open. Inside, gold bars were stacked neatly on metal shelves, their surfaces catching the light like fire. Coins filled wooden crates, spilling over in careless abundance.
Raymond's breath caught. "This is..."
"Worth a lot of money," Lorenzo said, running a hand over a stack of bars. He turned to Raymond, his expression unreadable. "This is what power looks like, Ray. Not cash. Not drugs. Gold. It doesn't rot. It doesn't lose value. And it doesn't answer to the government."
Raymond swallowed hard. "How'd you get all this?"
Lorenzo smirked. "By being smarter than everyone else."
Lorenzo's "office" was a back room in the Tex-Mex steakhouse, decorated with a fake plant, a leather couch, and a framed photo of Trump shaking hands with a younger Lorenzo.
Raymond sat across from him, bored out of his skull.
"This the job?" Raymond asked. "Sitting around?"
Lorenzo leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Carnal, 90% of this business is waiting. Waiting for calls. Waiting for deals. Waiting for the right moment to move." He gestured to the phone on the desk. "Gold's patient. You gotta be too."
Raymond snorted. "Sounds like a pyramid scheme with better suits."
Lorenzo grinned. "Nah, man. Pyramid schemes are for white people. This? This is capitalism."
The phone rang. Lorenzo answered, his voice smooth. "Yeah?"
A pause. Then his grin widened.
"We got it."
He noticed Raymond looking around. Lorenzo's office was cluttered with maps, burner phones, and a whiteboard covered in scribbled names—DEA agents, cartel lieutenants, rival dealers.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"You ever heard of the DEA selling drugs back to the cartels?"
Raymond frowned. "That's a conspiracy theory."
Lorenzo laughed. "No, mijo. That's business." He tapped the whiteboard. "See, the DEA seizes fentanyl shipments. But instead of destroying it? They auction it off—to me. I buy it cheap, repackage it, sell it to the cartels at a markup. They get their product back, the DEA gets their cut, and I?" He grinned. "I get rich."
Raymond's stomach twisted. "You're playing both sides."
"I'm playing the side," Lorenzo corrected. "The winning side."
Lorenzo's "we got it" turned out to be three kilos of gold bars, smuggled in a shipment of auto parts from Mexico. The seller was a twitchy norteño named Chuy, who kept adjusting his belt like he expected to be frisked.
Raymond watched as Lorenzo slid a briefcase across the table. Chuy opened it, counted the cash, then nodded to his bodyguard—a slab of muscle with a shotgun slung over his shoulder. The bodyguard tossed a duffel bag onto the table.
Lorenzo unzipped it, glided his fingers over the gold, then suddenly froze.
"This isn't 24 karat," he said softly.
Chuy paled. "Qué? Of course it is—"
Lorenzo flipped a bar over, revealing a tiny stamp: 22k.
A beat of silence. Then Lorenzo sighed, like a disappointed teacher.
"Raymond."
Raymond knew what that meant.
He broke Chuy's nose with the butt of his pistol before the man could blink.
—-
Back at the steakhouse, Lorenzo was in a philosophical mood.
"You ever notice," he mused, "how pigs scream when the time finally comes when they're slaughtered? Like they know." He sliced into his ribeye, bloody juice pooling on the plate. "People are the same. They know when they're beat."
Raymond thought of Chuy's whimpers, Nelson's bloody fist. "So what's the lesson?"
Lorenzo pointed his knife at him. "Never be the pig. Be the knife. Be the hand holding it." He leaned in. "Or better yet—be the guy who owns the whole damn slaughterhouse."
A text buzzed on Lorenzo's phone. He read it, then smirked.
"Speaking of slaughterhouses... We got a problem to fix."
The "problem" was a rival dealer named Tavo, who'd been skimming from Lorenzo's fentanyl shipments. They found him in a dingy apartment near Gulfton, counting cash on a folding table.
Tavo looked up, resigned, as they kicked in the door. "Ya sé por qué vinieron."
Lorenzo tutted. "Then you know how this ends."
Raymond expected another beating. Instead, Lorenzo pulled out a Ziploc bag of white powder and tossed it on the table.
"You like product so much?" Lorenzo said. "Eat it."
Tavo's hands shook as he scooped a handful into his mouth.
Lorenzo made him finish the whole bag.
Raymond vomited in the alley afterward, his throat burning. Lorenzo lit a cigarette, unfazed.
"First time?"
Raymond spat. "That wasn't business. That was torture."
Lorenzo blew smoke into the neon-lit haze. "Business is torture. You break them fast, or they break you slow." He flicked the cigarette at a stray dog. "You still wanna be the knife?"
Raymond thought of Nelson's bloody knuckles. Of Chuy's sobs. Of the way Tavo's eyes rolled back as he choked.
He wiped his mouth.
"Yeah."
Lorenzo sat at his desk, counting gold coins. Raymond watched, silent.
"You ever think about what this makes us?" Raymond asked finally.
Lorenzo didn't look up. "What?"
"Pigs."
Lorenzo paused. "What?"
Raymond nodded at the gold. "Pigs. Rolling in shit, getting fat. That's capitalism, right? They're just animals at the trough."
Lorenzo laughed, but it was hollow. "Sounds like you're starting to catch on, Ray."
Raymond said nothing.
Outside, the city hummed. Cars honked.
The gold glimmered, cold and bright.
Later, over carne asada and Modelos, Lorenzo laid it out.
"You ever think about pigs, Raymond?"
Raymond took a swig of beer. "What?"
"Pigs," Lorenzo repeated. "They eat anything. Garbage, shit, their own young. And what do we do with 'em?"
"Eat 'em."
"Exactly." Lorenzo stabbed his fork into the meat. "Capitalism's the same. It's a pig. It'll eat anything—people, morals, whole countries. But if you're smart? You eat it first."
Raymond chewed slowly. "That's your big philosophy? Be a pig?"
Lorenzo laughed. "Nah, cabrón. Be the butcher."
—-
Raymond didn't make it home until late. The house was quiet, the only light coming from the TV flickering in the living room.
The smell of burning chorizo led Raymond to the kitchen where Jorge stood frozen, Raymond's bloodstained work shirt in his hands. The older man's knuckles whitened around the fabric.
"You told me you were working construction," Jorge said, voice cracking like dry kindling.
Raymond reached for it. "It's not what—"
Jorge flung the shirt into the sink where it hissed against leftover dishwater and huffed his way out of the kitchen.
Through the kitchen window, Raymond saw Sebastian watching from the driveway, arms crossed. A silent witness.
Nelson sat at the table, his face red, his hands clenched into tiny fists.
Raymond frowned. "What happened?"
Nelson wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Marcus. He... he pushed me into the mud. Called me a wetback."
Raymond's blood boiled. He crouched down, eye level with the kid. "You hit him back?"
Nelson shook his head, fresh tears welling up. "Abuelito said not to."
Before Raymond could respond, Sebastian appeared in the doorway, his arms crossed. "Leave him alone," he snapped. "You're not helping."
Raymond stood, turning to face him. "Kid's getting bullied. Somebody's gotta teach him to stand up for himself."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. "By making him a thug like you?"
The words hung in the air like a punch. Raymond stepped closer, his voice low. "Better a thug than a punching bag."
Sebastian didn't back down. "You think violence fixes everything? That's why you're nothing. Just a dumb pocho."
Raymond saw red. He grabbed Sebastian by the collar, slamming him against the wall. "Say that again."
Sebastian smirked, blood trickling from his lip. "Puerco."
Raymond reared back—then stopped. Nelson was watching, his eyes wide.
Sebastian saw his hesitation and struck first. His knee came up hard into Raymond's gut, knocking the wind from him. Before Raymond could recover, Sebastian twisted free and drove a shoulder into his ribs, sending them both crashing to the linoleum.
The younger man was stronger than he looked. His fists pummeled Raymond's sides with surprising force, his breath hot against Raymond's ear. "This what you want to teach him?" Sebastian hissed between blows. "This the lesson?"
Raymond tasted blood. He bucked his hips, flipping their positions, pinning Sebastian's wrists to the floor. The kid thrashed beneath him, spitting curses in rapid Spanish.
Nelson's small voice cut through the struggle: "Stop! Please stop!"
Raymond froze. He looked down at Sebastian's furious face, at the blood smeared across his own knuckles. This wasn't teaching. This was just another fight, another cycle of violence.
He let go.
Sebastian straightened his shirt, still smirking. "That's what I thought."
Raymond turned to Nelson. "Listen to me, kid. The world's full of pigs. Some wear badges, some wear suits. Only way to survive is to be the meanest one in the pen."
Sebastian scoffed. "Great advice. Really Christian."
Raymond ignored him, kneeling in front of Nelson again. "You hit Marcus tomorrow. Hard. And if he hits back, you hit harder. Understand?"
Nelson hesitated, then nodded.
Sebastian threw up his hands. "Great. Now we got two of you. Así es como los pochos hacen las cosas."
The next day, Raymond was nursing a whiskey-laced coffee when Jorge’s front door burst open. Nelson stood there, trembling, his knuckles split and bloody.
“I hit Marcus,” he whispered.
Raymond crouched down. “And?”
“He cried.” Nelson’s voice was equal parts pride and terror. “Then his brother pushed me into the fence.”
Sebastian stormed in, his face thunderous. “Mira lo que hiciste!” He grabbed Nelson’s arm, showing Raymond the bruises. “You happy now?”
Raymond ignored him, wiping Nelson’s bloodied hand with a dish towel. “You hit the brother too?”
Nelson shook his head.
“Next time,” Raymond said, “you hit everyone.”
Sebastian threw the towel in Raymond’s face. “You’re turning him into an animal!”
Raymond stood slowly. “Better an animal than prey.”
—-
Raymond’s second day at Lorenzo’s bar was nothing like he expected.
He arrived early, the neon sign flickering weakly in the morning light, casting a pink glow over the empty parking lot. The bar was closed, but Lorenzo had given him a key. Inside, the air smelled of stale beer and disinfectant. The chairs were still upside-down on the tables, the floor sticky under his shoes.
Lorenzo wasn’t there yet.
Raymond wandered behind the bar, running his fingers along the bottles of liquor, the labels faded from years of sunlight. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Clean? Stock? Wait?
He grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter, the motion mindless, repetitive. The silence was oppressive.
Then the door opened.
A woman walked in, her heels clicking against the tile. She was tall, with dark hair cascading down her back, her lips painted a deep red. She wore a tight black dress, her curves accentuated, her presence commanding.
Raymond froze, the rag still in his hand.
She raised an eyebrow, her eyes scanning him up and down. “You must be Raymond.”
He nodded, suddenly aware of how rough he must look—his wrinkled shirt, his scuffed boots, the fading bruise on his cheek from the fight at the gas station.
“Lorraine,” she said, extending a manicured hand. “Lorenzo’s girlfriend.”
Raymond wiped his palm on his jeans before shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, her nails sharp.
“Lorenzo’s running late,” she said, her voice smooth, amused. “He told me to make sure you didn’t burn the place down.”
Raymond frowned. “I know how to clean.”
She smirked, leaning against the bar. “Good. Because Lorenzo doesn’t hire people who don’t pull their weight.”
Raymond didn’t respond. He went back to wiping the counter, his movements stiff.
Lorraine watched him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re not much of a talker, huh?”
“Not when I don’t have anything to say.”
She laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Fair enough.” She reached behind the bar, pulling out a bottle of tequila and two glasses. “You drink?”
Raymond hesitated, then nodded.
She poured two shots, sliding one toward him. “To new beginnings.”
They clinked glasses. The tequila burned going down, but Raymond didn’t flinch.
The TV hummed in the dim glow of the empty steakhouse, sunlight slicing through half-closed blinds. A rerun of Lone Star Court played to no one—just the ghosts of last night’s drinkers and the lingering scent of stale beer.
Judge: "Where were you going? The pork store?"
A pause. The defendant, a burly man with a defensive hunch, shifted on the stand.
Defendant (Mr. Manstavich): "Yeah, needed kielbasa for the grill."
Judge: "Was he drinking again?"
The prosecutor sighed, flipping a file shut.
Prosecutor: "Your Honor, did you break your 90-day sobriety? Did you drive drunk?"
Manstavich (grumbling): "No, Your Honor."
Judge (eyebrow raised): "Then what did he do?"
Prosecutor (dryly): "He incited an accident by not using his turn signal."
A beat. Lorraine snorted.
Manstavich (leaning forward): "I don’t use the turn signal if there ain’t nobody behind me that needs to see it!"
Judge (pinching the bridge of her nose): "Then why—"
Manstavich (sheepish, shrugging): "See, the thing was… I was a little tipsy, Your Honor."
The gavel cracked. Lorenzo’s woman shook her head. Somewhere, a fridge motor kicked on. The TV cut to a commercial for injury lawyers as the camera lingered on the empty stools, the silent neon, the justice no one was left to hear.
Lorraine studied Raymond, her dark eyes unreadable. “Lorenzo says you used to be something.”
His grip tightened around the glass. “Used to be.”
She tilted her head. “What happened?”
He set the glass down harder than necessary. “Life.”
Lorraine didn’t press. Instead, she poured another shot. “Well, Lorenzo thinks you can be something again. So don’t fuck it up.”
Raymond didn’t answer.
The day dragged on.
Lorenzo finally showed up around noon, flashing that easy grin of his, clapping Raymond on the back like they were old friends. He gave Raymond a quick tour of the place, explaining the basics—stocking the bar, handling the register, breaking up fights before they got out of hand.
“Mostly, you’re just here to keep an eye on things,” Lorenzo said. “Make sure no one steals, no one starts shit. You’re the muscle, but you don’t gotta flex unless you have to.”
Raymond nodded. Simple enough.
But as the hours passed, he realized how boring it was. The bar didn’t open until evening, so he spent most of the afternoon cleaning, organizing, waiting. He wasn’t used to this—the monotony, the stillness. He was used to chaos, to survival.
Lorraine left around midday, blowing Lorenzo a kiss before disappearing into a sleek black car. Lorenzo watched her go, his expression unreadable, then turned back to Raymond.
“Hungry?”
Raymond shrugged.
Lorenzo grinned. “Good. There’s a place down the street. Best carnitas in Houston.”
The restaurant was small, cramped, the air thick with the smell of sizzling pork and spices. A faded mural of a smiling pig adorned the wall, its cartoonish face cheerful, oblivious.
“Bienvenidos a El Cerdo Feliz!” the pig seemed to say. Welcome to The Happy Pig!
Raymond stared at it as they sat down.
Lorenzo followed his gaze and chuckled. “Kinda fucked up, right? A pig smiling while people eat its cousins.”
Raymond didn’t respond.
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp. “You ever think about that? How we’re all just pigs in the end?”
Raymond frowned. “What?”
Lorenzo gestured around them. “Capitalism, man. It’s a slaughterhouse. Some of us are the butchers. Some of us are the meat. But we’re all part of the machine.”
Raymond stared at him. “Since when do you care about capitalism?”
Lorenzo smirked. “I don’t. But it’s funny, right? That pig up there? It’s happy. It doesn’t know it’s food. That’s most people. They work, they grind, they think they’re getting somewhere. But they’re just bacon waiting to happen.”
Raymond’s stomach twisted. He looked away.
Lorenzo’s grin widened. “But not us, Raymond. We’re the butchers.”
The waiter arrived, setting down two plates of carnitas—crispy, golden, glistening with fat.
Raymond stared at his plate.
The pig on the wall kept smiling.
The bar’s neon sign buzzed like an angry wasp as Raymond wiped down the counter for the third time that afternoon. The monotony was getting to him—same sticky spots, same lingering smell of spilled beer and regret. He glanced at the clock. 4:37 PM. Still two hours before opening.
Then the door swung open.
A man strode in, his tailored suit crisp despite the Houston humidity, his gold Rolex catching the dim light. He wasn’t Lorenzo.
Raymond straightened, the rag still in his hand. “We’re closed.”
The man smirked, sliding onto a barstool. “Not for me.” He extended a hand. “Victor. Lorenzo sent me.”
Raymond didn’t shake it. “Sent you for what?”
Victor’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “To replace you.”
The words hung in the air like a bad punchline. Raymond’s grip tightened on the rag. “The fuck you mean, replace me?”
Victor pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and slid it across the bar. A text from Lorenzo:
"Got a situation. Need Raymond ASAP. Send Victor to cover the bar."
Raymond’s jaw clenched. He tossed the rag into the sink. “Where’s Lorenzo?”
Victor shrugged. “Didn’t say. Just told me to hold down the fort while you handle business.” He glanced around the empty bar, unimpressed. “Not exactly a tough gig.”
Raymond’s phone buzzed. A new text—coordinates, followed by:
"NOW."
He didn’t hesitate.
The coordinates led to an industrial park on the city’s outskirts, rows of identical warehouses baking under the afternoon sun. Raymond parked Jorge’s car behind a rusted shipping container and stepped out, the heat pressing against his skin like a living thing.
Lorenzo’s black Escalade idled near Warehouse 12, its tinted windows hiding whoever was inside. Raymond approached, his boots crunching on gravel.
The passenger window rolled down. Lorenzo’s face appeared, his usual smirk replaced by a tight-lipped grimace. “Get in.”
Raymond slid into the SUV. The AC blasted, icy against his sweat-damp skin. Lorenzo didn’t look at him, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
“What’s the emergency?” Raymond asked.
Lorenzo exhaled sharply. “Deal went sideways. Some asshole thinks he can short me on a fentanyl shipment.” He finally turned, his dark eyes gleaming. “Time to remind him who he’s dealing with.”
Raymond didn’t flinch. “You need me to hurt someone?”
Lorenzo’s grin returned, slow and dangerous. “I need you to make sure they never forget.”
The Escalade roared to life, tires spitting gravel as they peeled toward the warehouse.
Raymond cracked his knuckles.
The pig was about to meet the butcher.
The road was supposed to be clear.
Lorenzo’s convoy—three SUVs, armed men, the fentanyl hidden in the middle vehicle—rolled toward the meet point. Then the radio crackled.
“Police checkpoint ahead.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. He grabbed the radio. “Since when?”
“Since this morning.”
Too long to be a coincidence. Lorenzo cursed. “Turn around.”
Raymond watched as the lead SUV swung a U-turn. “What now?”
Lorenzo’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “If we miss this drop, the cartels think we stole from them.
Raymond’s mind raced. Then it clicked.
“We don’t need to drive it in,” he said.
Lorenzo frowned. “What?”
Raymond pointed at a tech store across the street. “I have another way.” (In half-Spanish)
The drone was a sleek, commercial model—high payload, long range. Raymond calibrated it on the hood of the car, fingers moving with surprising precision.
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you know drones?”
Raymond didn’t look up. “California.”
They loaded the fentanyl into the drone’s cargo compartment. Raymond lifted the controller, the machine whirring to life. The screen showed a bird’s-eye view as it soared over the checkpoint, police oblivious below.
Ten minutes later, the cartel’s confirmation text came through:
>>Package received.
Lorenzo grinned. “You’re a genius, carnal.”
Raymond didn’t smile. “You gave me the opportunity.”
—-
The gold bars gleamed under the warehouse fluorescents, stacked like bricks in some twisted game of monopoly. Lorenzo ran his fingers over them, the way a priest might caress a bible.
"Three million," he murmured. "Not bad for a day's work."
Raymond leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His knuckles were still raw from earlier—from Tavo, from Sebastian, from a lifetime of swinging first. The drone controller dangled from his other hand, its screen dark now.
Lorenzo tossed him a bar. Raymond caught it on reflex, the weight surprising him.
"Your cut," Lorenzo said. "For thinking outside the box."
The gold was cold in Raymond's palm. He turned it over, studying the mint stamp. "This ain't why I did it."
Lorenzo smirked. "I know. You did it because you're a fighter. But fighters gotta eat too, cabrón." He gestured to the stacks. "This? This is freedom. No more gas stations. No more begging Jorge for couch space. You're your own man now."
Raymond's throat tightened. He thought of Nelson's bloody knuckles, of Sebastian's sneer. Puerco.
A phone buzzed. Lorenzo checked it, his smile fading. "Shit."
Raymond tensed. "Cops?"
"Worse." Lorenzo pocketed the phone. "Victor says some pinche woman showed up at the bar asking for me. Says she's got something that belongs to me."
Raymond frowned. "What?"
Lorenzo's eyes darkened. "Gold."
—-ATILA—-
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