Page 55 of Unlock My Heart

“Who’s the creepy-looking man?” My sister whispers to me.

I glance over my shoulder to find Kirksey deep in conversation with his visitor. “Don’t worry about him. That’s my cellie, Kirksey. Cornbread Costa Nostra by way of Biloxi,” I whisper to Al.

“Cornbread? What does that mean?”

“He’s not Italian, but hey, not all of us can be God’s favorites,” I joke.

“If you’re one of God’s favorites, then why are you rotting in prison?” Al whisper-hisses.

“Oof.” I fall back in my chair. “Way to gut a man, little sis.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why you’re in here,” she says hotly.

“Allegedly, I did a line of blow and shot a man.” Saint insists that I add the “allegedly” qualifier, but those two facts are hard to dispute.

“But you had your reasons?” Al implores.

“Yes.” And those reasons feel like battery acid burning a gaping hole in my chest. “Allegedly.”

“Visitation is over,” the CO calls.

“It sucks when I get to go home, and you have to go back,” Al says, wiping her shiny eyes with the back of her arm. “This whole thing isn’t fair.”

“Hey, now. Don’t shed a tear for me.” Glancing at the clock, I tell her, “I’m out in 43,440 minutes.” With nothing better to do, I like to track my release date by the minute. “Blink, and you’ll miss it.” Rising, I wrap my arms around Al, kissing the top of her head. “See you next week, little blackbelt.”

She sniffs. “You still need to come up with a better nickname.”

“Let me work on it.” I ruffle her hair.

Sadly, I’ve got the time.

I’m escorted to general pop, and it’s back to my regularly scheduled, mind-numbing program. After chow, I hit the urinal in the communal bathroom.

If you’re one of God’s favorites, then why are you rotting in prison?

Vitto fucking Calvani.

Even if I were one of God’s favorites, I was never the devil’s.

Shaking off my cock, a sound pricks my awareness. A blade slices inches from my ear as I roll.

Spinning around, I jerk my pants up to find the all day and a night inmate I paid off from the priest hit. Brandishing my shank.

He lunges for me, and I juke to the right, grabbing his wrist. Outmuscling him, I force the blade to his own neck. “Who sent you?”

“Your brother sends his regards.” The motherfucker spits in my face, and now he’s gone and pissed me off.

My knee connects with his balls, and he doubles over. A leg sweep catches him off guard; the back of his head slams against the urinal. It’s lights out as his body crumples to the ground.

I sprint to the first stall, wrapping my hand over and over with toilet paper before returning. Angling my body away from the impending spray, I ram the shank into his femoral, twisting until the blade breaks off.

Hustling to the stall, the bloody TP gets flushed down the toilet, and the shank handle gets wiped down before it’s tossed and flushed.

I told Al that Angelo and I weren’t beefing.

Oh, but we’re beefing now.

Chapter Seventeen