He’s probably been making plans ever since he heard the news. Pulling strings, calling in favors, assembling the kind of resources that only someone like Carlo Benedetti can command. I can picture him now, pacing his elegant living room in oneof those perfectly tailored suits I bought for him, his dark eyes blazing with determination as he orchestrates my rescue.
My cellmate thinks I’m delusional, but he doesn’t understand. Probably because he spends most of his time taking an alarming amount of drugs. Even when he is coherent, he doesn’t know what it’s like to be loved by someone who commands respect and fear in equal measure, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to move heaven and earth for the person he cares about.
And Carlo does care about me. He has to. Why else would he have left me that beautiful note promising to come back? Why else would he have told me he loved me if it wasn’t absolutely true? My initial panic at finding the letter was understandable, but I’ve long since come to my senses. My wonderful Carlo would never lie to me.
Sighing happily, I leave my cellmate in his drugged haze, and make my way down to lunch.
The lunch hall is a symphony of clattering trays and crude conversation, the kind of place where civilized behavior comes to die. I navigate through the line with careful precision, selecting items that won’t completely offend my palate while trying not to think about how different this is from the elegant meals Carlo and I shared in our beautiful basement sanctuary.
The mashed potatoes look like wallpaper paste. The meat is an indeterminate brown that could be beef or shoe leather. But it’s temporary. All of this is temporary, because any moment now Carlo is going to burst through those doors like an avenging angel and sweep me away from this terrible place.
I find a seat at one of the long metal tables, positioning myself where I can see the entrance clearly. When he arrives, I want to be the first thing he sees. I want him to know that I’ve been waiting for him, that I never doubted for a moment that he would come.
I’ve washed and styled my hair as best I can. Salvaged this hideous uniform by rolling parts up and leaving poppers undone. It’s imperative that I look my best for my love.
“Well, well, what have we here?”
The voice is gravelly and unpleasant, belonging to a man with prison tattoos covering his arms and the kind of smile that suggests violence is never far from his thoughts. He slides onto the bench across from me, flanked by two equally unsavory companions.
I’ve seen this trio before. Usually they have a younger man with them. A blond-haired youth who never looks up.
I heard he was taken to the infirmary this morning and that it doesn’t look good. I don’t know why his friends are talking to me instead of worrying about him. They should be busy making Get Well Soon cards.
“Looks like we got ourselves a new pretty boy,” one of them leers, his gaze traveling over my face with obvious intent. “Bit young to be in here with the big boys, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
I straighten my spine and fix them with the kind of cool stare that should send them scurrying for cover. These creatures clearly don’t understand who they’re dealing with.
“I’m married,” I inform them with dignity. “Happily married.”
The response is immediate and devastating. All three men burst into laughter, the sound harsh and mocking in a way that makes something cold settle in my stomach.
“Married!” the first man wheezes. “Oh, that’s rich. To who, your cellmate?”
“My husband,” I say firmly, though their laughter is making my chest tight with an unfamiliar sensation. Uncertainty. Fear. “He’ll be collecting me shortly.”
“Will he now?” The man leans forward, his breath reeking of tobacco and decay. “And what makes you think your husband gives a shit about you anymore? Most wives drop their men theminute they get sent down. This so-called husband of yours has probably already found himself something even younger and tighter.”
The crude words hit me like physical blows, but I refuse to let them see how much they affect me. Carlo isn’t like that. Carlo loves me. He promised to come back for me, and he’s a man of his word.
“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice perhaps a bit higher than I intended. “My husband is... he’s important. Powerful. He won’t leave me here.”
“Sure he won’t, princess.” He grins, displaying an alarming lack of teeth. “But while we’re waiting for Prince Charming to show up, why don’t you and I get better acquainted?”
His companions snicker appreciatively, one of them making a vulgar gesture that suggests exactly what kind of ‘acquaintance’ they have in mind. Other prisoners are starting to gather around our table, drawn by the promise of a show. Some look excited, others merely interested, but none of them look like they’re planning to intervene on my behalf.
The crowd is pressing closer now, the smell of unwashed bodies and stale cigarettes and something darker, more predatory. Their voices getting louder and more aggressive. Comments about my appearance, my perceived inexperience, what they plan to do once they get me alone.
The tattooed man’s hand suddenly lands on my thigh under the table, thick fingers squeezing with unmistakable intent
The touch sends revulsion through me so pure and violent that I actually gag. I shove his hand away with both of mine.
“Don’t touch me,” I gasp. “Don’t you dare touch me! My husband is Carlo Benedetti!”
I expect the name to have the same effect it would have in civilized company. I expect them to go pale, to stammer apologies, to back away in fear and recognition.
Instead, they laugh even harder.
“Who the fuck is that?” the second man asks between guffaws. “Sounds like some pasta-eating nobody.”
