Paco Magic should have died, the way Sebastian had gone after him. But he survived, albeit with some severe brain injuries, and while the nearly all white jury didn’t care much about a gangster who now drooled when he spoke and cried when he spilled his oatmeal, they had a much different opinion on the death of a cop. The jury delivered their verdict before it was time to break for lunch: life, without the possibility of parole.

Frank came back with a bottle of ice-cold water and some Advil. Sebastian sat up, sweat popping out on his forehead as his ribs screamed in protest, like an angry mob. He dry-swallowed four Advil tablets and then chased them down with water.

Frank’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pants pocket and glanced at the screen. His eyebrows rose, which was about as expressive as Frank got.

“Paul?” Sebastian asked.

Frank nodded. “Take it so I can track it.” He shoved the ringing phone into Sebastian’s hand. “Keep him on as long as you can,” he said, and then he bolted across the room, heading for the stairs that would take him to his office on the bottom floor.

Sebastian answered the call, but he didn’t speak.

“Hey, Frank, how’s it going?” Paul asked, sounding calm and casual, like he was calling a store to see if a certain something was in stock. “Was hoping to have a word with you.”

Sebastian sucked in air, to draw back the pain, to get some strength in his voice. “Frank’s unavailable, asshole. You’ll have to deal with me.”

“You’re alive.” The words came out as half laugh, half surprise. “Well . . . shit.”

“Puts a wrinkle in your grand plan, I’m guessing.”

“You sound like you’re in a lot of pain.”

He was, in fact, although what he was experiencing right now wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the first time he’d gotten beaten in jail. He was working his shift in the laundry room when a group of guys—Sebastian had no idea how many or who they were, it had happened so fast—jumped him and then took turns beating the shit out of him. It shamed him, how he begged and cried for it to stop, how he continued to cry after it was over. Eventually, he forgave himself for being a ponocha—he was, after all, just a kid, a terrified eighteen-year-old boy, not a man, whose life had suddenly been turned upside down through no fault of his own. He had been protecting the woman he loved—and still loved, to this day.

But he wasn’t that scared little boy anymore. That kid had been dead for a long, long time. Sebastian had killed and buried him.

“How badly are you hurt?” Paul asked. “You going to make it?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. A spike of pain had stolen his breath. He gritted his teeth, swallowing, not wanting Paul to hear.

“Maybe this is a good thing,” Paul said. “You being alive.”