A year. A whole-ass year flew by, and a lot of things had changed.
To get the bad news out of the way first: my court date was finally set for November 27th, 2027. I spent the weeks leading up to it locked in a room with my defense lawyers, going over the strategy. They kept keeping it a stack with me—trying to get a first-degree murder charge reduced to voluntary manslaughter was going to be an uphill battle, even with Jasmine testifying that Nathan was an abusive monster. His father was a sitting congressman now. The Rosario family was going to be on my ass like red beans on rice, using every resource they had to drag my name through the mud and paint me as a cold-blooded killer.
But then, we got a massive breakthrough.
Without me even asking them, Juliet’s parents agreed to step up and testify on my behalf. And even better? Jasmine had spent the last year digging through Nathan’s estate, and she found his dirty little secrets. Like most sociopaths, Nathan kept trophies. He’d left behind physical and digital evidence of exactly what he’d done to Juliet.
Juliet’s parents brought her final letter to the defense. That suicide note was our golden ticket. It proved to the court that I had no premeditated intention of killing Nathan off the rip. I’d spent the last six years obeying her last wish—trying to let him go and move on with my life. I’d laid down my weapons and chosen the light.
And the surveillance footage from the coffee shop backed it up. It showed the entire world that I’d actively tried to de-escalate the situation and walk away. I’d practically begged him to leave me alone, but Nathan refused to let me leave.
The prosecution and the judge spent days arguing over whether the evidence was admissible. But we kept pushing. Both sides knew that if the judge let this evidence in, the state’s premeditated murder case was completely dead. The fact that Nathan had leaked her private pictures on the internet right after the party proved a continuous pattern of harassment.
It wasn’t cold-blooded murder. I didn’t go to that coffee shop to kill him. I’d just hit my absolute breaking point. I’d crashed out in the heat of passion.
It was a textbook case of voluntary manslaughter. And we were going to make them fight for every single inch of it.
The courtroom was packed to the absolute gills. I was sitting at the defense table, my hands cuffed in front of me, wearing some wrinkled-ass button-down shirt the bailiff had handed me. They’d confiscated my thobe. Those stupid-ass guards claimed it was “gang-affiliated.” I didn’t even bother correcting them. What’s the point?
Judge Morrison sat up on the bench. She was this heavyset white woman with silver hair and reading glasses perched right on the edge of her nose. She’d been presiding over my case for three weeks now. I’d been watching her closely—the lady didn’t smile, and she didn’t frown. She just sat there and listened.
“Mr. Whitfield,” Judge Morrison said, turning to the prosecutor. “You may proceed with your witness.”
The prosecutor, David Whitfield, stood up. The man was tall, sharp, and looked like he’d been born in a three-piece suit. He was the kind of lawyer who made eye contact with the jury every three seconds, probably counting them.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Whitfield said. He turned toward the witness stand. “The State calls Detective Marcus Webb.”
Detective Webb walked up to the stand. He was a Black man in his late forty's, built like a linebacker, with a clean-shaven head and tired eyes. He’d been the lead investigator on Nathan Rosario's murder.
Whitfield approached the stand, holding his tablet. “Detective Webb, you were the first officer on the scene after the shooting, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you reviewed the surveillance footage from the coffee shop and the surrounding businesses?”
“I did.”
“And what did that footage show?”
I watched the jury. Twelve faces. Eight white, three Black, and one Asian. They were all staring at Webb like he was about to tell them some ghost story.
“It showed the defendant, Rico Kovacs, walking out of the coffee shop,” Webb said. “The victim, Nathan Rosario, was standing on the sidewalk. They appeared to exchange words. Mr. Rosario stepped in front of Mr. Kovacs, blocking his path. Mr. Kovacs tried to walk around him. Mr. Rosario stepped in front of him again.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Rosario said something else. I can’t make out the audio from this distance, but Mr. Kovacs stopped walking. He turned around, reached into his waistband, and produced a firearm. He fired multiple shots at close range.”
“How many shots?”
“The magazine was empty. Nineteen rounds.”
Whispers rippled through the gallery. Judge Morrison banged her gavel once. “Order.”
Whitfield nodded, pacing slowly in front of the jury box. “Detective, did you find any evidence that Mr. Rosario was armed?”
“No, sir. He was unarmed.”
“Did you find any evidence that Mr. Rosario physically attacked Mr. Kovacs in that moment?”
“Objection,” my lawyer, Ms. Alvarez, called out. Pedro's people had pulled some serious, high-level cartel strings to get her on my case, and she was good. I could tell.
“Overruled,” Judge Morrison said. “The detective may answer.”
“No,” Webb said. “There was no physical contact between them before the shooting.”
Whitfield let that hang in the air for a moment. “Detective, did Mr. Kovacs flee the scene after the shooting?”
“He did.”
“And was he apprehended?”
“He was arrested six hours later at a motel on the edge of town.”
“Did he resist arrest?”
“No. He surrendered peacefully.”
Whitfield paused, scrolling through his tablet. “Now, Detective, I want to talk about something else. Did you find any evidence at the scene related to the victim's personal life? Anything that might suggest a prior connection between Mr. Kovacs and Mr. Rosario?”
Webb shifted in his seat. “We found Mr. Rosario's phone. It contained photographs of a woman named Juliet Rossi. Explicit photographs. They had been posted to multiple social media platforms on the day of her death.”
“And who was Juliet Rossi?”
“She was a student at the same university Mr. Kovacs attended. She died by suicide approximately six years before Mr. Rosario's murder.”
Whitfield nodded slowly. “Did you find any evidence connecting Mr. Kovacs to Ms. Rossi?”
“Objection,” Ms. Alvarez said, standing up. “Your Honor, this is irrelevant to the charge of first-degree murder. Mr. Rosario's past behavior—”
“Your Honor,” Whitfield interrupted, “the State is establishing motive. The defendant's obsession with Ms. Rossi is directly relevant to why he killed Mr. Rosario.”
Judge Morrison adjusted her glasses. “I’ll allow it. But tread carefully, Mr. Whitfield.”
Whitfield nodded. “Detective, did you find any evidence connecting Mr. Kovacs to Ms. Rossi?”
Webb cleared his throat. “We found text messages between Mr. Kovacs and Ms. Rossi. They were close. He was one of the last people to see her alive. We also found a note in her apartment addressed to him.”
“What did the note say?”
“It asked him to let go of his anger. To not do anything that would get him locked up again.”
Whitfield let the silence stretch. “So, the victim of the murder—Mr. Rosario—had a history with Ms. Rossi, who died by suicide. And Mr. Kovacs had a note from Ms. Rossi asking him to let go of his anger toward Mr. Rosario?”
“That’s correct.”
“No further questions.”
***
Ms. Alvarez stood up. She adjusted her blazer and walked toward the witness stand.
“Detective Webb, you testified that my client fired nineteen rounds, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you testified that Mr. Rosario was unarmed?”
“Yes.”
“But you also testified that Mr. Rosario had a history of violence, correct? That he was a trained MMA fighter?”
“Yes.”
“And that he had a history of physically and sexually abusing women?”
“Objection,” Whitfield called out. “Relevance.”
“Your Honor,” Ms. Alvarez said, turning to the judge, “the defense is establishing that my client had a reasonable fear of Mr. Rosario. Mr. Rosario was a trained fighter with a documented history of violence against women. My client was not a trained fighter. He was a computer scientist who had previously been beaten unconscious by Mr. Rosario in front of fifty witnesses.”
Judge Morrison nodded. “Overruled. The witness may answer.”
Webb nodded slowly. “Yes. We found evidence that Mr. Rosario had been accused of sexual assault by multiple women. None of the accusations resulted in charges.”
“And you found evidence that he had physically abused his wife, Jasmine Rosario, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you found evidence that he had posted explicit photographs of Ms. Rossi without her consent, which contributed to her suicide?”
“Yes.”
Ms. Alvarez walked back to the defense table and picked up a folder. “Detective, I want to show you something. This is a certified copy of a police report from the state of Florida, dated 2008. Do you recognize it?”
Webb took the folder and flipped through it. “It’s a report from the Florida Department of Children and Families. It documents a complaint filed against Ms. Zola Kovacs, the defendant's biological mother, for severe physical abuse and neglect.”
“And what was the outcome of that complaint?”
“The complaint was investigated. The defendant was removed from the home and placed in foster care.”
“And the defendant was eight years old at the time, correct?”
“Yes.”
Ms. Alvarez turned toward the jury. “Detective, did you also find evidence that the defendant had been physically abused by his foster siblings during his time in foster care?”
“Objection,” Whitfield said. “This is a character assassination of the victim's family. The victim's brothers are not on trial here.”
“Your Honor,” Ms. Alvarez said, “the State has spent the last three days painting my client as a violent, uncontrollable monster. The defense is entitled to show the jury the environment that shaped him. This is not about the victim's brothers. This is about my client's history of trauma.”
Judge Morrison leaned forward. “Overruled. The witness may answer.”
Webb nodded. “Yes. We found documentation that the defendant was physically abused by his foster siblings, Marcus and Diquerius Patterson. We also found documentation that the foster mother, Ms. Patterson, was aware of the abuse and did not report it.”
Ms. Alvarez paused, letting the jury absorb that. “Detective, one more question. Did you find any evidence that my client ever lied to law enforcement during the investigation?”
Webb shook his head. “No. He surrendered peacefully. He did not resist arrest. He invoked his right to counsel and did not answer questions.”
“And when he was arrested, did he have any prior criminal record?”
“No. His record was clean.”
“Thank you, Detective. No further questions.”
***
Whitfield stood up again. “Redirect, Your Honor.”
“Proceed.”
“Detective Webb, you testified that the defendant had no prior criminal record. But isn’t it true that he had a prior arrest for attempted murder when he was fourteen years old?”
Webb nodded. “Yes. The arrest was expunged when he turned eighteen.”
“Expunged. But the arrest still happened, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And isn’t it true that the defendant nearly killed a man in that incident? A twenty-one-year-old man named Jake Thompson?”
“Objection,” Ms. Alvarez called out. “Your Honor, the defendant was a minor. The record was expunged. The State is attempting to introduce sealed juvenile records—”
“Your Honor,” Whitfield interrupted, “the defendant has put his entire life history at issue by claiming self-defense. The State is entitled to show a pattern of violent behavior.”
Judge Morrison sighed. “Overruled. But I’m warning you, Mr. Whitfield. This better be relevant.”
Whitfield nodded, turning back to Webb. “Detective, what happened in that incident?”
Webb cleared his throat. “The defendant was involved in a physical altercation with Mr. Thompson. Mr. Thompson was a senior at the defendant's high school. The defendant believed Mr. Thompson was harassing his foster sister, Jasmine Patterson. The altercation escalated. The defendant stabbed Mr. Thompson twenty-eight times with a pencil.”
Gasps erupted from the gallery. Judge Morrison banged her gavel. “Order! I will clear this courtroom if I have to!”
Whitfield waited for the noise to die down. “Twenty-eight times, Detective. Did the defendant show any remorse?”
“He was fourteen years old. He was charged as a juvenile and the case was expunged.”
“Did he show remorse?”
Webb hesitated. “He was interviewed by a psychologist. The psychologist noted that the defendant expressed remorse, but also that he felt the victim deserved it.”
“Thank you, Detective. No further questions.”
***
Ms. Alvarez stood up again. She looked tired but determined.
“Detective Webb, you testified that my client stabbed Mr. Thompson twenty-eight times. But isn’t it true that Mr. Thompson was a twenty-one-year-old man who had been held back twice and was harassing a fourteen-year-old girl?”
“Yes.”
“And isn’t it true that Mr. Thompson initiated the physical altercation by punching my client?”
“Yes.”
“And isn’t it true that my client was only able to stop Mr. Thompson by using a pencil because he was being beaten so badly he was afraid for his life?”
Webb nodded. “The defendant stated he believed he was in fear for his life.”
“And isn’t it true that the prosecutor in that case, Marceline Gomez, attempted to have my client tried as an adult and sentenced to life in prison, despite the fact that he was a child defending himself?”
Whitfield stood up. “Your Honor, this is—”
“Overruled,” Judge Morrison said. “The witness may answer.”
Webb nodded. “Yes. The prosecutor sought an adult trial. The judge denied the request and granted the defendant emancipation instead.”
“And isn’t it true that my client's emancipation was granted because the judge determined he was a victim of severe abuse and neglect, and that the foster system had failed him?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions.”
***
The next witness was Nathan's mother, Patricia Rosario.
She walked up to the stand like she was walking to a funeral. She was a tall, thin woman with pale skin and perfectly styled blonde hair. She wore a black dress and pearls. She looked like she’d stepped right out of a high-society magazine.
I watched her. I didn’t feel angry yet. I just felt tired.
“Mrs. Rosario,” Whitfield said, his voice soft and respectful. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Patricia nodded, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Thank you.”
“Can you tell the jury about your son?”
Patricia took a shaky breath. “Nathan was... he was a wonderful boy. He was kind, he was smart, and he was talented. He was a trained fighter. He could have gone pro. He had a scholarship to a top university. He was going to inherit his father’s business.”
“What was his relationship like with his wife, Jasmine?”
Patricia's face tightened. “He loved her. He loved her so much. He gave her everything. A beautiful home, beautiful children, a life most people can only dream of.”
“And what was her relationship like with the defendant?”
Patricia looked directly at me for the first time. “She was confused. He manipulated her. He filled her head with lies. He convinced her that Nathan was a monster when he was the sweetest, most gentle person I’ve ever known.”
My jaw tightened. I didn’t say anything.
“When did you first learn about the defendant?”
“After Nathan was murdered. We found out that Jasmine had been in contact with him behind Nathan's back. She was planning to leave Nathan for him. She was going to take the children.”
“And what did you think when you learned that the defendant had murdered your son?”
Patricia's voice cracked. “I thought... I thought that he was a monster. A cold-blooded killer. He took my son from me. He took my grandbabies' father from them. He took everything.”
She broke down sobbing. Whitfield handed her a tissue.
“Mrs. Rosario, did you ever meet the defendant before the murder?”
“No.”
“Did you ever speak to him?”
“No.”
“Did you know anything about his history?”
“No. I didn’t know anything until after. And then I found out he was a violent criminal. He'd been arrested before. He'd almost killed someone when he was a child. He sold drugs in college. He was a troublemaker. A liar. A competitor. A manipulator.”
My hands clenched so fucking tight I thought I was bleeding My vision started going completely red. I was there, nigga! HE told me out of his mouth where he was doing to her, trying to groom her into a perfect little wife giving her Stockholm Syndrome. I saw the absolute FEAR in her eyes when she talked about him when I brought it up! And now this privileged-ass woman—the same woman who raised the monster who did all of it—was sitting on a witness stand, crying, and calling
me
the fucking liar?! Bitch what text messages!?
Ms. Alvarez stood up for cross-examination. “Mrs. Rosario, you testified that your son never laid a hand on his wife. But isn’t it true that there are multiple documented instances of Jasmine Rosario seeking medical treatment for injuries consistent with domestic abuse?”
Patricia's eyes narrowed. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Your Honor,” Ms. Alvarez said, holding up a file. “I have medical records from three different hospitals, all showing that Jasmine Rosario sought treatment for bruises, fractures, and lacerations. In every instance, she stated that she fell down the stairs or walked into a door. This is a textbook pattern of domestic abuse.”
Patricia's face went pale. “I... I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know? Or didn’t want to know?”
“Objection,” Whitfield called out.
“Sustained,” Judge Morrison said. “Ms. Alvarez, watch your tone.”
Ms. Alvarez nodded. “Mrs. Rosario, did you know that your son posted explicit photographs of a young woman named Juliet Rossi on the internet without her consent?”
Patricia's hands were shaking. “I don’t... I don’t know anything about that.”
“Did you know that Juliet Rossi died by suicide six years before your son was killed?”
“I... I heard something about it.”
“Did you know that she was autistic?”
“I don’t... I don’t know.”
“Did you know that your son raped her?”
“Objection!” Whitfield shouted. “Your Honor, this is—”
“Sustained,” Judge Morrison said firmly. “Ms. Alvarez, that is enough.”
Ms. Alvarez didn’t back down. “Mrs. Rosario, did you know that your son threatened to kill Jasmine if she ever tried to leave him?”
Patricia was crying now, her composure completely shattered. “I don’t... I don’t believe that. Nathan would never—”
“Did you know that your son's own children were afraid of him?”
“That’s a lie! Nathan loved his children!”
“Did you know that your son never changed a single diaper, never fed them a single bottle, never spent a single night comforting them when they cried?”
Patricia was sobbing openly now. “I... I don’t... I can’t...”
“No further questions.”
***
The final witness was me.
I stood up and walked to the witness stand, keeping my head held high despite the cold steel cuffs on my wrists. I sat down and looked Whitfield dead in his eyes, then at the jury, then at Judge Morrison.
“Mr. Kovacs,” Whitfield said, approaching the stand with that same smug, expensive look on his face. “You’ve heard the evidence against you. You’ve heard the testimony of your victim's family. What do you have to say for yourself?”
I took a slow, deep breath, letting the freezing rage settle in my chest.
“I killed Nathan Rosario,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m not going to sit here and play games or pretend I didn’t. I shot that motherfucker nineteen times. I wanted him dead.”
Whitfield nodded, a condescending smirk playing on his lips. “So you admit you committed premeditated murder?”
“I admit I killed him,” I shot back. “But I didn’t wake up that morning thinking I was going to kill anybody. I just wanted some damn coffee.”
“But you just said you wanted him dead.”
“True. I wanted him dead for six long years, but I didn’t do it. I tried to do things the right way. Instead of just going to his house party and blowing his brains out, I fought him in front of everybody and I humiliated his ass. And then I kept pushing it away. When I found out Juliet died, I was going to rectify my mistake—until I saw her letter. It was the most selfish thing you can ask of someone after going through something like that, begging me to let it go. But I tried. On God, I tried so hard.”
“And then you saw him six years later, and you killed him.”
“He stepped right in front of me!” I shouted, my voice rising as the fury started to boil over. “I just so happened to see his ass while I was getting my usual coffee around eight in the morning! Then he proceeded to provoke me, trying to ragebait me into a fight so he could whoop my ass again. The only thing is, I didn’t feel like fighting! I let all of that slide. But then he told me what he did to Jasmine. He told me he had her locked under key, told me he was going to keep treating her like property, and he laughed about it. That’s when I flashed out!”
“So you killed him because he threatened your ex-girlfriend?”
“I killed him because he was a monster!” I roared, slamming my cuffed hands against the wooden railing. “You want to call me a monster? You and that whore of a mother he has over here, trying to paint a nigga in a bad light like you fucking know me from all that goddamn paperwork just to slander my name! But I’m the liar, right? I’m the manipulator, huh? I’ve spent my entire life being failed by your garbage-ass system! My biological mother beat the absolute shit out of me, the foster twins stomped a hole in my ass for years, and the prosecutor Gomez tried to lock my fourteen-year-old ass up for life just for defending my family! And when I finally find some peace, when I try to do things the right way, this privileged piece of shit tries to destroy another girl’s life! He raped Juliet! He blackmailed her! He drove her to die! And then he holds Jasmine hostage, treating her like property, and he thinks he can just threaten her in broad daylight and I’m gonna let it slide?! Bro, I’m tired of this shit, nigga!”
Whitfield's face was completely red, his veins popping against his collar. “You’re not on trial for what Nathan Rosario did! You’re on trial for what you did!”
“No shit!” I screamed back, standing up as the handcuffs rattled against the wood. “And I’m not saying I’m innocent! I’m saying I’m not the monster you’re trying to make me out to be. I’m not a villain, I’m not a liar, and I’m no damn manipulator!”
“Mr. Kovacs—”
“I’m a man who was failed by everybody!” I shouted, gesturing wildly with my bound hands. “I was abused by my biological mother, I got beaten by my foster brothers, and I was completely abandoned by your garbage system! I watched the only person who ever truly loved me kill herself because of a man who had every advantage in life. And I made a mistake. A big mistake. But I am not a monster!”
“You killed a man in cold blood!” Whitfield was practically screeching now, turning to the judge.
“I killed a man who raped an autistic girl and laughed about it!” I roared, looking directly at the jury. “That nigga was only 'innocent' because we can’t try a dead fucking man! But we can lock up a fourteen-year-old Black boy in this country, and then years later say, 'Oh, my bad, let’s expunge his record,' but we can’t make a dead rapist guilty?!”
“Mr. Kovacs—” Morrison warned, her gavel raised.
“I tried to do it right!” I screamed, the tears of pure, exhausted rage running down my face. “I tried to let it go and fucking heal! And then he told me he was going to keep hurting Jasmine! What was I supposed to do?! What would you do?!”
“Your Honor—” Whitfield yelled, trying to drown me out.
“Fuck all of you!” I let it all rip, completely crashing out. “I’m not a saint! I never claimed to be! I sold drugs! I fought people! I almost killed somebody when I was fourteen! But I never lied! I never manipulated! I never did anything to anybody who didn’t deserve it! And the one time I did—the one time I killed somebody who actually deserved it—you want to lock me up for the rest of my life! Meanwhile, the system that let him rape and abuse and destroy people is still running! So do what you want! But I’m not going to apologize for being a man who stood up when nobody else would!”
Morrison banged her gavel violently against the bench, the wood splintering.
“Sit down, Mr. Kovacs!”
I stood there for a moment longer, my chest heaving, before I slowly sat back down in the witness chair.
The courtroom went dead silent.
Morrison adjusted her glasses, her hands slightly shaking as she looked at the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve heard the evidence,” she said, her voice tight. “You’ve heard the testimony. You’ve heard the defendant's own words. You will now retire and deliberate.”
***
Three days later, the jury returned.
Guilty of voluntary manslaughter.
Ten years.
I stood in the courtroom, my hands cuffed, staring straight ahead.
I’d done it. I’d beaten the murder charge. Ten years for manslaughter. With time served, I’d be out in six.
I didn’t smile. I didn’t celebrate. I just gave Mujahid a quiet nod. I’d won.
But as they led me back to my cell, back to the cage, it didn’t feel like winning.
***
For the next two years, I was back in a cage. But I wasn’t just sitting around. Pedro kept looking out for me, sending me a ridiculous amount of commissary every single week. He was a real one, throwing me five thousand dollars' worth of commissary just so I could get all the best shit. I was practically running the block. Of course, I still got into a few fights, but they didn’t last long at all. It got so bad at one point that some local gang members tried to jump and stab me, which forced the guards to move me to a completely different housing unit.
But the best part of my entire bid was the visits. I got regular prison visits from Jasmine.
“Hey, babe,” she said, sitting on the other side of the glass.
“Hello to you too, love of my life,” I smiled, picking up the phone receiver. “It’s nice of you to pay me a visit every two weeks.”
“You know I can visit you more, right?”
“I know you could. But that time spent coming to see me could be used for the kids. I wouldn’t want to take their mother away from them that much.”
Jasmine shook her head, a soft smile on her lips. “Rico, I literally want to come see you every week. You need to stop being so selfless all the time and be a tad bit more selfish.”
“Come on,” I grinned. “When did I ever act selfish? For as long as you’ve known me, how long has that been?”
“You’re only selfish when you think you’re not,” she teased. “Like not telling me that you made a deal with Pedro and that’s how you got all that money!”
“That fucking rat!” I laughed. “He won’t snitch on me to the feds, but he’ll snitch to you, huh? Double-standard head-ass.”
I looked down at the bundle she was cradling in her arms.
“Who is that, anyway? That kid is a bit too big to be Lucan.”
Jasmine’s smile widened, her blue eyes shining. “You’re right. This is your baby girl.”
She gently adjusted the blanket, revealing the baby's face. She was the most beautiful angel I had ever seen in my entire life.
“Wait,” I stammered, my heart completely skipping a beat. “You weren’t pregnant—”
“You’re a bit too trusting, Rico,” Jasmine giggled. “You actually believed me when I told you I was just getting fat.”
“You know I would’ve loved you even if you were a BBW,” I said, my voice getting thick as I stared at my daughter’s face. “I don’t care if you gain weight.”
“It seems like jail made you more understanding, too,” she mirrored.
“It can either break your character or make you a better one,” I whispered, wiping a tear from my eye. “So... what’s her name?”
“I named her Juliet,” Jasmine said softly. “Juliet Kovacs. I didn’t know the real one that well, but I wanted to respect her memory.”
Without even thinking about it, I was smiling. A genuine, raw smile through tears of absolute joy.
“Damn...” I choked out, looking at my daughter through the glass. “I might not be able to get out of here until she’s ten years old. I’ll basically be a stranger to her...”
“Actually, I talked to a few of the judges,” Jasmine said, leaning in close to the partition. “They said you’ll be eligible for parole in about a year. The staff here told them that you’ve kept everything pretty peaceful in this unit for the most part.”
“Well,” I let out a soft laugh, wiping my face. “When you can basically whoop everybody’s ass in a fight, you get respect instead of fear. You can tend to change a lot of places in jail. As long as the block isn’t filled with YNs who don’t have any respect.”
***
Three years.
Three long-ass years, but I’d finally done it. On November 27th, 2030, the heavy iron gates of the state facility slid open, and I walked out a free man. I was twenty-nine years old. I’d spent almost my entire twenties fighting, running, and sitting behind bars. But as I stepped onto the gravel and took that first breath of clean air, I knew I still had my whole life ahead of me.
Jasmine was waiting by my Jeep. She was holding our little girl, Juliet, who was now a beautiful, talkative three-year-old. Lucan was a hyper toddler, running around on the grass, and Blake was standing tall at nine years old, looking like a real young man.
The second they saw me, the boys ran over. I scooped Lucan up, dapped up Blake, and then wrapped my arms around Jasmine and our daughter.
Holding my little girl for the first time on the outside was a feeling I can’t even put into words. Looking at her face, I knew her namesake’s memory was alive and well. I’d missed some time, sure. But she was still young. I still had more than enough time to raise her right, guide my sons, and be the father figure they actually deserved.
We walked over to the Jeep, and I took my spot in the driver’s seat. I turned the key, and the engine purred to life. The camera system I’d installed years ago booted up on the dashboard screen, covering every single angle of the vehicle.
For a second, watching my family buckle themselves in through the rearview mirror, I believed the storm had finally cleared. I believed I was finally out of the darkness.
But as I pulled onto the highway, the burner phone in my pocket vibrated.
I slid it out with my left hand. It was an encrypted text from a secure, untraceable terminal:
“Welcome back, Rico. Your vacation is over. It’s time to go back to work.”
My grip on the steering wheel tightened, my eyes catching my reflection in the mirror. My face was older, but the fire in my eyes hadn’t gone out.
You can beat a murder charge. You can survive the concrete floor of a cell. But when you make a million-dollar pact with the maximum leader of the cartel... you never truly walk away.
The cage was gone.
But the game was just getting started.