The courtroom was even more intimidating than during the hearing. The bench was higher, the atmosphere more solemn.
And then they were brought in. Don Ricardo Alcantara, aged and diminished, avoided looking anywhere. Hector, in a suit that looked too big for him, stared at his hands. But Arturo Vega.
He walked in with the same unnerving calm, his cuffed hands held loosely in front of him. His eyes, the hawk's eyes, scanned the room. They passed over the judge, the prosecutors, and settled on me. This time, the gaze was different. Not just assessment.
It was a cold, flat acknowledgment. A predator recognizing the one who had finally trapped him. I held his gaze, my heart thudding against my ribs, and did not look away.