Chapter 10 - SUNDAY PANCAKES
Three years later.
The sun rose over the quiet, tree-lined streets of Astoria, Queens.
The small garage on 14th Street—Salgado Auto Imports—was open, its blue painted doors rolled up to let in the cool spring breeze. Inside, two young mechanics were working on a vintage Mustang, the sound of classic rock playing softly from an old radio on the workbench.
In the small apartment above the shop, the smell of fresh coffee and melting butter filled the kitchen.
I stood by the stove, holding a spatula, carefully watching a golden-brown pancake sizzle in a cast-iron skillet.
I flipped it.
The bottom was slightly scorched, dark brown around the edges.
"Dad," Renata’s voice called out as she walked into the kitchen, wearing a college sweatshirt and holding a thick stack of law school textbooks. "You burned the first batch again."
"It's a tradition," I laughed, scraping the dark pancake onto a plate and pouring fresh batter into the pan. "The second batch is always perfect."
Renata sat down at the wooden table, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
She was twenty-two now, in her second year at Columbia Law School, top of her class. She was working with the Innocence Project, helping families who couldn't afford legal representation against powerful institutions.
"Did you hear from Arthur today?" she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
"He called this morning," I said, setting a plate of golden, perfectly cooked pancakes in front of her. "He’s living in Portugal now. Buying a vineyard. He says he’s too old for cold New York winters."
Renata smiled, reaching into her bag and pulling out a framed photograph. She set it on the table between us.
It was an old, slightly faded photograph of her mother, Elena, sitting on a bench in Central Park, holding a baby Renata in her arms, smiling brightly at the camera.
"I brought this from my room," Renata said softly. "I think Mom would be proud of us."
I looked at the photograph, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the morning sun.
"She would be proud of you, Renata," I said, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. "You fought back with the truth. You showed them who we really are."
"Who are we, Dad?" she asked with a gentle smile.
I looked at my stained, calloused hands—the hands that had once ruled a dark underworld, the hands that had built a life, the hands that had held my daughter when she was broken.
"We're the Salgados," I said, raising my coffee cup in a small toast. "We fix things that are broken."
Outside the window, the streets of Queens were coming alive with the sounds of morning traffic, children laughing on their way to school, and the steady, peaceful rhythm of a normal life.
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The Ghost was gone forever.
And in his place stood a father, sitting in the morning light with his daughter, watching the sunrise.
