— “Mom, let’s go home. It’s going to be okay.”
But he knew this was just the beginning.
The ride home was silent. Andrew held his mother’s arm as they walked, her head down, still trembling. On the bus, no one looked at them—just another tired family in a tired city. They climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Vera sat on the sofa immediately, her face in her hands. Andrew poured her a glass of water and set it on the table.
— “Mom, drink this.”
She looked up, her eyes red:
— “Andy, what have you done? Those are the sons of Miller, Owens, and Bennett. They’ll destroy us. You’ll go back to prison, and I…” her voice trailed off.
Andrew sat beside her, rubbing her shoulder:
— “Mom, I’m not letting anyone hurt you. Never again.”
She looked at him, and he saw a mix of gratitude and sheer terror.
— “I know, honey. But they aren’t people you can fight with your fists. They have money, they have the police, they have the lawyers. They’ll squash us like bugs.”
Andrew didn’t argue. He knew she was right. But there was no turning back now.
Early the next morning, Mrs. Gable called. Her voice was frantic:
— “Andrew, the market… your mother’s stall. It’s gone. Someone torched it last night. The police were there, but they said there’s nothing they can do. No cameras in that corner.”
Andrew hung up and looked at his mother. She was in the kitchen, having tea, unaware. He said softly:
— “Mom, don’t go to the market today. Someone burned the stall.”
Vera went pale, her cup rattling against the saucer.
— “What?”
Andrew repeated it. She closed her eyes and whispered:
— “God help us. That was all I had.”
He walked over and hugged her:
— “I’ll get you new supplies. We’ll fix it.”
But they both knew it wasn’t an accident. It was a message.
Three days later, Andrew was summoned to the local precinct. An officer delivered the notice—a man in his forties with a tired face and indifferent eyes.
— “Sullivan, be at the station tomorrow at ten. Detective Miller wants to talk to you. Don’t be late.”
Andrew nodded.
He showed up on time. Detective Miller met him in a small interview room. He was a solid man with a buzz cut and a heavy stare. He gestured to a chair. Andrew sat. Miller leaned back, tapping a pen on the desk.
— “Sullivan. Just got out, right?”
— “That’s right.”
— “Nine years for aggravated assault. A real tough guy.”
Miller paused, then leaned forward, his eyes narrowing:
— “Listen to me carefully, Sullivan. You beat up three kids at the market. I’ve got witnesses, I’ve got video. I could charge you right now and send you back to the state pen. But I’m not going to. Do you know why?”
Andrew remained silent.
— “Because I got a call from the Commissioner’s office. They said: tell this ex-con to forget what happened and disappear. If he stays out of sight, we won’t press charges. If he doesn’t… we’ll find a reason to bury him. You get me?”
Andrew looked the detective in the eye, his voice steady:
— “They were harassing my mother. Filming her for fun.”
Miller smirked:
— “So what? You think this is the first time? Those boys are from the right families. They do what they want. And you? You’re a nobody. A felon with no job and no future. My advice: forget this ever happened and live your life quietly. Otherwise, you’re going back inside. We clear?”
Andrew stood up:
— “Clear.”
— “Get out of here,” Miller muttered.
Andrew walked out of the station. His hands weren’t shaking from fear; they were shaking from rage. He realized then that the law wasn’t going to help. There would be no justice. There was only one rule: the people with the money and the power were always right.
A week later, Andrew’s old friend, Paul, was jumped. Paul worked construction and lived in the same neighborhood. On his way home, three guys in masks cornered him. They used bats. A concussion, a broken arm, and several lost teeth. In the hospital, Paul told Andrew:
— “One of them said before they left: ‘Tell your convict buddy this is just the warm-up.'”
Andrew sat by the hospital bed, silent. Paul looked at him through a swollen eye:
— “Andy, run. They won’t stop. They have the money, they have the muscle. They’ll just erase us.”
Andrew shook his head:
— “I’m not running, Paul. I’m sorry I got you into this.”
Paul tried to smile, but his lip was too torn:
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