Victor Ruiz had never planned to become the villain in anyone’s story.

He was thirty-five, born in a dusty barrio outside Tijuana, raised by a mother who cleaned hotel rooms and a father who fixed cars until his lungs gave out from asbestos. Victor learned early that love was a luxury and survival was a skill. He crossed the border at nineteen with a coyote’s promise and a duffel bag of dreams. In Seattle he worked nights as a janitor, days in community college, and paid every bill on ...