The sound of fists hitting leather echoed through the empty gym. Mateo’s knuckles throbbed, but he welcomed the pain. It was easier to focus on bruises than on thoughts that twisted his chest every time he closed his eyes.

“Your right hook’s getting sloppy,” a voice called out.

Mateo turned, sweat dripping down his temples. Theo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his face. He was one of Ricardo’s men, younger than most, with a sharp tongue that usually got him into ...