New Yorks Finest

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

Recap:

"Good. That means you're ahead of the curve."

As the conversation picked up, I noticed Weston casually checking his phone, eyes flicking up every now and then half listening, half somewhere else. But still present.

I didn't say anything, but I caught that. I noticed the way he nodded at people passing by without fully engaging. Cool without trying. Kind without being soft.

Maybe city people weren't all so different.

Maybe this wasn't going to be as impossible as I thought.

Elias

My head is spinning. I'm tired of running in circles with no end in sight. I want to be better, a real life something my younger scared self could brag about. But every time I reach for that future, it feels like I'm running a race with no finish line, slowly loosing my stamina.

TAP‑TAP.

Knuckles on glass dragged me out of my spiral. I rolled down the window of my 2012 Dodge Charger; a prized hand‑me‑down from my older, now‑deceased brother.

Same routine. I hand him a tiny zip bag; he hands me crumpled bills that smell like regret. He shuffles off, crooked steps disappearing into an ash‑gray alley. Another high for him. Another stack of wrinkled cash for me. Another tiny slice of whatever I call freedom.

I shoved the money into the console, slammed the car in gear, and peeled away from the curb toward Luna's the only place in Brooklyn that feels like a hug and not a shove.

Third Person – Luna's Cantina

The Charger squealed into the lot, headlight beams scraping chipped bricks. Elias killed the engine and, for the first time all morning, his shoulders sagged in relief.

Inside, the scent of adobo and frying masa hit him first—home. Carmen Luna, all five‑foot‑nothing of her, spotted him at the door and broke into a grin. Wrinkles mapped the years around her eyes, but her hug would never age.

"¡Mira a mi hijo!" she chirped, squeezing him with surprising strength.

He breathed her in; lavender lotion, sautéed onions, and a warmth he only found here. For a heartbeat, he let himself imagine it was his real mother's arms instead of the city's stand‑in.

"¿Tienes hambre?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Starving, Titi."

He slid onto a cracked red barstool. Moon‑white handprints lined the wall customers who had pressed palms into wet plaster over the decades. His own, stamped at age six, sat between a cab driver's and Carmen's granddaughter's. Proof he belonged somewhere.

His phone buzzed. He ducked beneath the half‑archway near the restrooms to answer more buyers, more weight but muted it. For ten minutes, he was just a boy waiting for rice, beans, and peace.

Luca

Caroline and I burst through Luna's door mid‑laugh, nearly tripping over each other. In two weeks she'd become my built‑in tour guide and my personal hype squad.

"All I'm saying," she ranted, "is if I'm gonna steal from my job, why stop at ten funky‑ass dollars? I'd take the whole register!"

Her dramatics drew a chorus of chuckles from a table of old men. I clutched my stomach. "CC, I get it, but I'm starving can we complain after  we order?"