The sun was sinking low over East L.A., casting long shadows across the cracked pavement and bathing the Toretto house in rich shades of gold and burnt orange. Heat still clung to the air, carrying with it the smoky aroma of grilled meat, charcoal, and the faint, ever-present hint of motor oil that seemed permanently woven into the place. It was the unmistakable scent of home — of family.