My stomach churned, bile rising, and I forced my eyes forward, gripping the waistband of my loose jumpsuit.
Was this... my life now?
A sentence of decades in concrete tombs, where age, violence, and desperation would take their toll?
The thought pressed against my chest, suffocating.
Prison gangs would sniff out my weakness before I even reached the bunk.
They would know I was alone—the wife of a mafia kingpin, isolated, cut off from protection, with only my name to mark me.
I’d be a target, a message, or worse.
My pulse quickened. Every instinct screamed that I could not falter, could not show a single sign of fear.
Cell 40 loomed at the end of the tier.
Ramirez, steady and unflinching, produced a heavy keyring and jiggled it in the lock.
The door creaked open, the smell of stale sweat, ammonia, and the faint metallic tang of blood greeting me before I even stepped inside.
“This is yours. Your cellmates are inside.”
I hesitated, peering in.
Five women packed into a space meant for two—bunks stacked three high, the stained toilet in the corner, graffiti scarring the walls in desperate, angry loops.
They lounged like predators in a den.
One with a shaved head and a tattooed neck leaned against the wall, chewing something with deliberate, slow motions.
Another was braiding cornrows into a third’s hair, eyes flicking up to me, calculating.
Hairstyles screamed defiance—buzz cuts, mohawks dyed blood red, braids threaded tight against leathered skin.
Their gazes were raw, hungry, devouring.
I swallowed. My throat felt thick, dry, raw.
And then I heard a voice that froze me to the bone.
“Elena.”
I spun around.
My jaw dropped.
Officer Harlan. My aunt’s husband.
The man who had tormented me as a girl—the monster who had violated me three times under the guise of family, evading every accusation with lies, threats, and smiles that curled like venom.
He was here. Now. In uniform, badge gleaming mockingly, chest puffed slightly, paunch stretching the fabric snug over it.
That same cruel leer, those piggy, untrustworthy eyes.
Every memory of pain, shame, and helplessness rushed back like a tidal wave, leaving me trembling in place.
He waved Ramirez away. “Go on, Ramirez. I’ll lock up,” he said, voice smooth, commanding, like a predator marking territory.
