Tiki’s hands were steady, but not empty. A small leather satchel held photos: a blonde woman laughing on a balcony, a kid with skinned knees, and a letter worn almost transparent. The letter had one line circled twice: “Don’t trust the Ferrera boys.” He wasn’t sure why it still bothered him—he and the Ferreras had split before blood was spilled—but some things don’t die when you leave them behind.