Thirty years into a very long sentence, Butch Cavanaugh sat stewing in his prison cell. Numerous requests for parole had been denied. Nonetheless, Butch had thrived behind prison walls. He’d developed a set of muscles that had nothing to do with his physique. A power he had never experienced in the outside world made him a successful bully on the inside—muscles that had afforded him favors and a measure of respect, muscles that gave him confidence. But the years had begun to take their toll, and he had no desire to remain a prisoner for the rest of his life. Pushing seventy, he did not want to die in a cell with his throat cut. Someone more clever and more persuasive waited to challenge his headship at the end of every decade.