15. Choosing The Fight
Choosing The Fight
Harmony
The charges against me were dismissed less than twenty-four hours ago.
Now I'm telling my staff I won't be coming back.
Their faces fill the secure video call from our conference room in El Paso. Maria sits at the head of the table where I normally lead Monday morning meetings, with the rest of the associates crowded around her. Some look relieved. Others still look shaken.
"I've spoken with the State Bar," I tell them. "The complaint has been withdrawn, the federal case has been dismissed, and my practicing certificate remains in good standing."
A collective breath leaves the room.
"They actually admitted they were wrong?" one of the junior attorneys asks.
"Not publicly."
A few tired smiles appear.
"They never do," Maria says.
"They don't have to," I reply. "The charges are gone. That's what matters."
For our clients, it matters more than anyone realizes.
An accusation like mine doesn't just destroy one lawyer. It undermines every asylum application, every family reunification petition, and every appeal filed under that attorney's name.
Now those cases can move forward again.
I spend the next twenty minutes handing work back where it belongs. Maria will oversee litigation. David will handle emergency injunctions. Marcia will continue managing our humanitarian cases and mentor the two newest associates until I return.
If I return.
"I'll still be available," I say. "Encrypted email only. Video meetings when necessary. Nothing changes for our clients except where I'm sitting."
Maria studies me through the screen.
"Where are you sitting?"
I smile.
"Somewhere safe."
She nods immediately.
“Somewhere secure.”
“Is this because of the case?”
“The people responsible haven’t all been arrested yet. Until they are, I’ve been advised to keep my location confidential.”
Her expression tightens.
“Are you in danger?”
“I’m protected.”
It isn’t a complete answer, but it’s the only one I can give.
Maria nods slowly.
“Then that’s all we need to know.”
Another associate leans forward.
“When are you coming home?”
The question hangs between us.
I glance through the glass wall of the conference room. Beyond it, Steve is talking quietly with Victor while Daniel and Shane study a legal flowchart spread across the table. Rafael catches my eye and offers an encouraging smile before looking away to give me privacy.
I turn back to my team.
“When it’s safe.”
No one argues.
“We’ve got this,” Maria says.
“I know you do.”
The call ends with promises to check in tomorrow. The screen goes dark.
I sit without moving.
I built that practice one frightened client at a time. Every attorney on that call believed immigration law could still change lives if someone cared enough to fight.
They still do. So do I.
The difference is that my fight has become much bigger than one office in El Paso.
A soft knock sounds against the open door.
Victor waits outside with Steve, Janice, Daniel, Shane, and Rafael.
“Ready?” Victor asks.
I stand, close my laptop, and follow them into the conference room.
A HAVEN folder already sits in front of the empty chair.
Victor waits until everyone is seated.
“Harmony, we’d like to make you an offer.”
I look around the table.
“I thought I was already helping.”
“You are,” Daniel says. “We’re asking you to make it official.”
Victor slides the folder toward me.
“HAVEN needs dedicated legal counsel. We have Jaxon Blayne when necessary, but he has his own high-profile clients and can’t handle every legal issue we uncover. We need someone who understands immigration law, federal procedure, and exactly how Legacy corrupts the justice system from the inside.”
“You’ve lived their strategy,” Shane adds. “Now help us dismantle it.”
I look down at the folder, then across at Rafael.
“I was framed by Legacy.”
My hand settles on the folder.
“I’ll help frame the case against them.”
Quiet smiles replace the tension that followed us home from Texas.
This isn't the end of my legal career.
It's the beginning of the most important case I'll ever argue.
Blackstone Ventures Private Shooting Range, Marin County, California. 1430 hours.
Rafael sets the handgun on the bench between us.
“Before you touch it, tell me the rules.”
I glance at him.
“You’ve made me repeat them four times.”
“And you’ll repeat them a fifth.”
I sigh, but I’m smiling.
“Treat every weapon as if it’s loaded. Never point it at anything you don’t intend to shoot. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready. Know what’s behind your target.”
He nods.
“Now you can touch it.”
The range is empty except for us. Victor arranged private access, and Rafael has spent the past hour walking me through every part of the weapon with the patience of a man dismantling a bomb.
I pick it up, check the chamber the way he showed me, and settle into position.
My first shot misses the target completely. The second catches the outer edge. The third goes somewhere Rafael refuses to identify.
He lowers the binoculars.
“You hit California.”
I turn my head slowly.
“That was California?”
“Possibly Nevada.”
I laugh so hard I have to lower the weapon.
Rafael takes it from me, clears it, and places it on the bench before joining in. The sound carries across the range, easing something between us that has been wound too tightly since Texas.
When we finally recover, he steps behind me and adjusts my stance.
“Feet wider.”
“They are wider.”
“Not enough.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
His hands settle briefly at my hips, guiding me into position. The touch changes the air, but neither of us pretends not to notice.
We’ve stopped pretending about most things.
What happened between us in New Mexico wasn’t fear or gratitude. It wasn’t the false closeness danger can create. We talked about it on the flight home, then again at MacLeod’s Baby Bump Hotel when neither of us could sleep.
No promises we couldn’t keep. No careful lies disguised as protection.
We chose honesty instead.
I lift the weapon again.
“Breathe,” he says near my ear. “Don’t fight the recoil before it happens.”
I fire.
The shot lands inside the center ring.
Rafael grins as though I’ve won a championship.
“There she is!”
“One acceptable shot out of twelve.”
“Progress.”
“Your standards are alarmingly low.”
“Only where your shooting is concerned.”
An hour later, the handgun is locked away and we’re seated at a table in the range office with a legal pad between us.
It’s my turn.
I slide a hypothetical case file toward him.
“Federal prosecutor has bank records, two cooperating witnesses, and an informant statement. What do you attack first?”
“The witnesses.”
“Why?”
“Because bank records look objective. People don’t.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He leans back.
“If the witnesses were paid, threatened, coached, or offered immunity, I want that exposed before the jury sees the numbers.”
“That’s not bad.”
“High praise.”
I turn the page.
“The informant statement places your client at a meeting.”
“Who wrote the statement?”
“The agent.”
“Then I want the original interview recording, every draft, and the agent’s disciplinary history.”
I study him.
Rafael smiles.
“Surprised?”
“A little.”
“My mother wanted me to be a lawyer.”
“What happened?”
“I discovered I preferred breaking doors to arguing about who had authority to open them.”
I laugh again.
By the time the light outside begins to fade, he’s worked through every scenario I give him. He spots the pressure points quickly, understands motive, and never forgets the people hidden beneath the evidence.
I close the file.
“You would’ve been good at this.”
“I am good at this.”
“You’re insufferable…”
“And yet you keep inviting me back. And that wasn't the end of the sentence.”
I sigh.
“But attractive.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand.
Carefully. Honestly.
The bond between us began with shared language, familiar food, and the unspoken understanding of what it means to carry your family’s history into every room.
Now it’s becoming something deeper.
Something neither of us needs to name yet because we both know where it’s going.
And we’re allowing ourselves to enjoy it.
Ecstasy's Table Restaurant, San Francisco. 1900 hours.
The restaurant is busy enough to feel alive without being crowded.
Warm light spills across polished timber tables while conversation drifts through the room beneath the soft clink of glasses and cutlery. Through the windows, the last of the evening sun settles over Richardson Bay, painting the water gold.
"This was a mistake," Shane says as we're shown to our table.
Verity raises an eyebrow.
"You haven't even seen the menu."
"I know Ecstasy."
"That's your argument?"
"It's all the argument I need."
Right on cue, Ecstasy sweeps across the restaurant carrying a tray.
"There you are!" she says, setting it down before any of us can stand. "My favorite guinea pigs."
"I knew it," Shane mutters.
Ecstasy ignores him.
"I've been working on some new dishes."
Verity smiles.
"We heard."
"You'll tell me exactly what you think."
Shane points at Rafael.
“He volunteered.”
Rafael grins.
“I’m game. Bring it on.”
I lift my hand.
“What about me? I’ve got taste buds.”
Ecstasy beams.
“That’s the spirit.”
Verity looks between us.
“You’re both going to regret this.”
Ecstasy laughs.
"Don't worry. Nothing dangerous.”
Shane looks unconvinced.
"That's exactly what you said last time."
"And you survived."
"Barely."
She pats his shoulder.
"You're becoming dramatic in your old age."
Renzo appears from the kitchen carrying fresh garlic bread, still warm from the oven.
"I told her to go easy on you."
Ecstasy glances at him.
"You did not."
"I thought about it."
She slips an arm around his waist as he sets the basket on the table.
“I’m in love with an Italian spy who lies beautifully.”
Renzo kisses her temple.
“I learned from the best.”
Their smiles linger for a moment before he disappears back toward the kitchen, looking over his shoulder just long enough for Ecstasy to catch his eye.
The look they share says everything as they look at each other as though no one else in the room exists.