We haven’t gotten our high energy dog that’s been trained to protect Bella. Or flown to Italy so she can have authentic pizza, and to Greece to relive our ancient history obsession. I’m meant to be putting three kids in her, and we’re supposed to have an unconventional wedding, where she’d wear a white dress and start crying as she walks down the aisle.
I can’t die.I won’t.
But I can’t fight it.
The last thing on my lips when the lights go out is her name. "Bella."
Chapter 13
ROMAN
ThreeMonthsAgo
Roman: 22 years old – Isabella: 19 years old.
“Inmate 25963, today’s your lucky day.”
It takes far too much physical effort to look away from the piece of paper in my hands to Rico’s stupid face. I’m not a portrait artist, but I’ve had nothing but time on my hands to try to draw her. This particular one is my favorite piece.
I managed to get the soft bow of her lips, the sweeping lashes framing big almond-shaped brown eyes, and the little dot on her left cheek. It’s the only way I can see her in this shithole, and I don’t want to forget what she looks like.
The drawing doesn’t come anywhere near the real thing. I could spend a lifetime perfecting my skill, but I will never do her justice.
Adjusting the hand beneath my head, I sink farther into the cot before finally looking at Rico, who’s leaning against the bars with his arms crossed over his chest.
I smirk. “Jealous?”
He whistles and shakes his dark brown hair, then nods at the drawing. “Going home to that pretty thing? Damn right, I am.”
My lips peel back. “Careful,” I warn.
Chuckling, he walks the two steps to the opposite bunk and pulls himself onto the top one. “Two more months, and I’ll be back on my shit. I ain’t never seeing the inside of this place again.”
Over two years and nine months away from Bella almost killed me. I’ve memorized every inch of this place. I can’t count how many times I’ve thought about breaking out of here. I even planned it all out in my head. I have studied the delivery trucks, the laundry rotation, and when the lazy guards are scheduled.
But each time I’m about to act on it, I stop. I have a higher chance of staying here longer than I do of getting out. No one has escaped this place in over fifty years. I’m cocky, but I don’t know if I’m delusional enough to think I could pull off a prison break. In fact, I’ve been on my best goddamn behavior, which is so unlike me. Bella would be shocked.
I’ve been practicing what the Shrink Arthur calls ‘flat hands.’ It’s where Iuse my palms, not my knuckles. The only time my fingers curl into fists is when it’s wrapped around a dumbbell or a bar of weights tochannel my energy.
It’s some hippy-dippy bullshit, if you ask me. But it fucking works—sort of.
How many fights have I gotten into?
Six.
How many do the higher-ups know about?
One—but I proved I wasn’t at fault.
I’m a pillar in this community, an example to the other inmates of what a great prisoner looks like. I took English lit classes—not containing the dirty types of books that Bella reads, obviously—and I even had Arthur convinced I was interested in religion. Not like it was much of a choice. I was bored out of my mind and couldn’t use my arms while I was healing, so I had to pick something that made it seem like I was a half-decent person. Once I had full mobility, I flashed my finger at the man upstairs and started breaking my back at the garage they have here.
My religion starts with “Isa” and ends with “Bella,” and I’d worship at her altar every night. Blessed be the meal I’m about to eat and all that.
But Arthur buys the whole ‘reformed bad boy’ thing. He thinks I have “genuine guilt” over assaulting the twins.
Gullible idiot.
The only thing I’m guilty of is getting caught.
