California smelled like salt air and possibilities.
I rented a small apartment in San Diego, three blocks from the beach, paid for with money Albert had transferred to my account. Blood money, club money, money earned through violence and loyalty to a world I was trying to leave behind.
But it bought me windows that faced the ocean and mornings without gunfire.
That had to count for something.
Thirty days passed in a blur of silence. No explosions. No threats. No family drama or club politics or people trying to kill me. Just waves and seagulls and the strange emptiness of safety.
I got a job at a youth center, working with kids who reminded me too much of Tommy. Lost and angry and looking for belonging in all the wrong places. I told myself I could save them. That I could be the pers
