Chapter 17 - The Quiet HouseThe first week without Sofia was the hardest.
The house was completely, devastatingly quiet. There was no music playing from her bedroom, no sound of pages turning late at night, no lively debates over the breakfast table about politics and the law.
I found myself pacing the living room, feeling a strange phantom anxiety. For so many years, my entire existence had been defined by two things: protecting my daughter and destroying the De la Vega family. Now, the De la Vegas were rotting in prison, and my daughter was safely building her future.
Who was I, if not a shield or a sword?
On a Tuesday afternoon, I walked past a local community center. There was a handwritten sign taped to the window: Volunteer Drivers Needed for Legal Aid Clinic.
I stopped. I stared at the sign. I thought about the thousands of hours I had spent gripping a steering wheel, driving monsters to their luxury banquets.
I walked inside.
"I have a reliable car," I told the overwhelmed coordinator at the front desk. "And I know the streets of this city better than anyone. I want to help."
By the next morning, I was driving again. But this time, I wasn't chauffeuring arrogant billionaires. I was driving elderly widows to their pension hearings. I was driving underpaid factory workers to file labor disputes.
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I opened the doors for them. I offered them a warm smile in the rearview mirror. I made sure they felt safe.
I was still a driver. But for the first time, I was driving the right people.
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