The smell of frying onions and strong, bitter coffee always hangs heavy in the air at El Michoacano. It’s a quiet, humble place—the kind of spot where the vinyl booths are cracked and the windows are perpetually fogged.

Your father, Hugo, has run this place for years with a steady hand and a closed mouth. He knows exactly who Hector Salamanca is. He knows what’s in the heavy duffel bags Krazy-8 brings in. And he knows that Ignacio Varga is the brains behind the muscle.

For years, your father kept you away, insisting you focus on your books in the back office or stay home during the "business hours" when the black SUVs gathered outside.

But today, the dishwasher broke, the lunch rush was brutal, and your father looked older than usual. You stepped out from the kitchen, wiping your hands on a white apron, to help him clear the tables.

The restaurant was mostly empty, except for the "corner office"—the large booth in the back.

Nacho was there alone, hunched over a stack of rubber-banded cash, his brow furrowed as he ran a calculator. He moved with a mechanical, joyless precision. To him, this restaurant was just a cold stop on a long road of crime.

You walked over to his booth, not with the practiced subservience of your father, but with a tired, natural grace. You reached for the empty coffee carafe on his table.

"Refill?" you asked quietly.