Sebastian pulled out the chair next to Paul and sat. He could smell the chlorine wafting from Paul’s skin.

“That mean you want me to go get the ice?” Paul asked.

Sebastian didn’t answer. Paul leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs again, and smiled, and right then Sebastian realized Paul had very skillfully manipulated him to get him to sit down at the table, make Sebastian think that he had done it of his own accord.

But that was what psychopaths did. They manipulated. The intelligent ones, anyway.

“Right now,” Paul said, folding his hands against his hard, flat stomach, “I’m guessing you want to kill me. Understandable, given the circumstances. That won’t solve anything—will, in fact, just lead to a whole new set of problems, the first of which being the cops. You don’t want the LAPD—or the Feds, especially—to start poking around this wonderful facade you’ve created. You’re an ex-con who murdered one of their brothers in blue. Who knows what sort of shit they’ll uncover?”

Was that a threat? On paper it sure as hell would look like one, but the way Paul delivered it—like he delivered everything, in that soft voice of his, like he cared about you and your well-being—made it seem like he was offering sound counsel, one close friend to another.

“How much?” Sebastian asked.

“Excuse me?”

“How much money do you want? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“You think I came so I can extort you?” Paul chuckled, shook his head. “I could have done that over the phone—could have done that months ago, if I’d wanted.”

Paul’s smile felt like a knife.

“I don’t want to take money from you, Sebastian. I want to make it for you. I’m talking the kind of money that builds empires.” Paul poured a drink, his expression serious now, all business. “All that charity work you love to do, so you look like a pillar of the community? You can fund any charity you want, a whole stable of ’em, for eternity. They’ll name buildings after you, parks and streets. You’ll be immortal.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“After you make me immortal, then what? What else are you offering?”

“Whatever you want, my man.” Again with the cutting smile. “Whatever you want.”

You mean whatever you want, Sebastian wanted to say, glancing at the little gold crown on the table. Men like Paul were never content with their current status. Make them a prince, and they’d want to be a king. And when they finally managed to take the throne—always by force, by blood and deception—then they’d want to be a god, and even that wouldn’t be enough, because with men like Paul the wanting never stopped. Their bellies were never full, their egos never satisfied.

Paul took a sip of his drink. He closed his eyes as he swallowed.

“Wow,” he said. “You really, really need to try this.”

Paul poured the second drink.

“Alex and Jolie,” Sebastian said.