Prisoner #FS788791shook his head, showing the scribbling prison tats decorating his neck. The embroidered number on his orange jumpsuit couldn’t be more demeaning. We might as well be livestock ready for the slaughter.
I refuse to fucking die in here.
The oath resonated in my heart for the millionth time since the seven a.m. wake-up bell. I won’t. I refused to die without their blood on my hands and justice being served.
“I suggest you come with me. You get one shot. He wants to see you. Don’t fuck this up.” He leaned forward, smelling of grease and armpit stench. “One chance, brother. You really going to throw that away?”
My heart thudded. “He doesn’t have any power. Unless he can get me out of here before I’m a wrinkly old bastard who has to piss twenty times a night, then I’m not going anywhere near him.”
I’d heard the tales. The shankings. The mysterious poisonings. He wasn’t someone I wanted to piss off or get chummy with.
That was how enemies started. By picking sides.
I was my own fucking side.
Vengeance.
The prisoner smiled. “You have to trust someone.”
“No, I don’t.”
Never again. I would never be that weak.
“You need a friend in here. Life imprisonment is a long time.”
I rolled my eyes. “No shit, it’s a long time. Lucky for me, I prefer my own company.” I tried to push past, but his bony hand clutched my forearm.
“One meeting. One chance. Don’t fuck it up and he might have the power to do what you need.”
Our eyes locked and I wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp—the anger, hurt, and betrayal sliced my veins with every pump of my heart. I wasn’t a prisoner of this penitentiary, I was a prisoner of what they’d done to me.
One chance.
If I did this, maybe, just maybe, I might get what I needed. To make them suffer.
I tore my arm from his grip. “Fine.” Throwing my tray and congealed mac and cheese on the closest table, I snarled, “He gets three minutes. He tries anything, and I’m not the one who pays. Got it?”
For an eighteen-, about to turn nineteen-year-old, I was grateful I’d filled out, grown to over six foot three, and my long hair came across as slightly crazy, completely delinquent. My voice was deep—my balls had dropped years ago, and I’d been raised to use my fists first and mind later.
Too bad for my father, who taught me—he never understood my brain was the biggest, baddest part of me. Another reason why people in here avoided me. No one liked a genius murderer with a high IQ.
Double threat. Triple danger.
Prisoner #FS788791 nodded. “Deal. One meeting. Then it’s up to you.”
Him.
The awe-inspiring, nail-biting majesty himself.
Wallstreet to his fellow inmates, even to the guards. No one used his real name. No one dared disrespect him that way—even local politicians called him Wallstreet out of respect. Respect for what he’d created, even if it wasn’t exactly legal.
Wallstreet smiled, interlocking his fingers on top of the table. His usual spot was at the back of the cafeteria, wedged in the corner of the room to protect his back and side. Two men, looking like matching carrots in their orange jumpsuits, glared as I came closer.
No one could get to Wallstreet unless he wanted them to. Money bought more than respect—it brought longevity in a place where cutthroats and psychopaths wanted you dead.
His wrinkled face and greying hair were manicured and healthy. His eyes were bright and well rested, his jumpsuit ironed—fucking ironed—and dental hygiene top-notch. He was the magistrate in here. Even the prison officials let him be in charge of the criminal population.
Cigarettes? He got them.
Drugs? He got them, too.
Women? He’d hook you up, but offered no guarantee you wouldn’t die of fucking syphilis.
“Hello, Arthur. Lovely of you to join me.”
Prisoner #FS788791 pressed on my shoulder—or tried, seeing as he was like Pee-wee fucking Herman—coaxing me onto the bench. I shrugged him off, preferring to tower over the man at least forty years my senior.
“Name’s not Arthur. It’s Killian.” Arthur had died the moment Cleo had. No one would ever address me that way again. It hurt too fucking much.
I crossed my arms, planting my legs wide, hoping I looked angry as hell and just as terrifying. “Why me?”
“Excuse me?” Wallstreet chuckled, reclining a little and placing his hands in his lap. There were no dirty dishes or trays—either this douche didn’t eat, or his cronies had already cleaned the table.
“Why pick me? What did I do to deserve an audience with His Grace?”
He laughed again, raising an eyebrow. “Why not you?”
“No. Answer the fucking question.” I unwound my arms and wagged a finger in his face. “No cryptic crap. No bullshit. No games of any kind.” Slinging my leg over the metal stool, I sat and splayed my hands on the table. “I’m sitting. I’m listening. I’m giving you exactly three minutes to tell me why the fuck you wanted to see me on the anniversary of my arrival into this hellhole, and then maybe I’ll stick around and listen to more.”
Prisoner #FS788791 growled, “Respect, boy.”
Wallstreet waved him away. “It’s fine, Pat. He’s highly strung. That’s all.” His eyes glinted. “And impatient.”
I nodded. “Hell yes, I’m impatient. I’ve avoided stepping on toes or being roped into sides the full three hundred and sixty-five days I’ve been here. I want to stay neutral and you’re wrecking that by making people think you’re playing favorites with me.”