“I don’t need you to do anything, Naby. Not yet, anyway. If that changes, I’ll let you know. You have money in your com account?”
His head shakes. “Nah, that’s why I was running.”
I give him a scrutinizing look. “Who were you running for?”
“A guy from Louisiana.”
“Pharm?”
He nervously licks his lips. “Nah, Dyme,” he says as the alarm sounds, signaling dinner. He pauses to wait for the deafening noise to pass. “He works for Boudreaux.”
Well, well…things just got interesting.
“Come on, let’s go eat.”
It is rare for me to ever feel like the big, intimidating sort. Walking into the chow hall, I turn on the swagger and feel like a rabid monster in front of Naby. I’ve at least got a stocky, muscular build. He’s more a waif-like toothpick ready to get snapped any moment.
I’m on high-alert and ready to get jumped as all eyes are on my orange. I wish Warden Jolly would’ve hurried his ass up with our meeting. If he knows I’m a Raniero, this too, was on purpose.
Despite the concerns with safety, the mainframe of my mind is compiling intel on Gage Boudreaux. He is a Master, as in Dominant, who runs House Boudreaux, just north of Baton Rouge. He’s also a massive thorn in my boy Deacon Cruz’s side, proving to be Reckless Rebellion’s biggest competition.
With Deacon selling off the clubhouse to Je Suis, Boudreaux can’t be happy. If they’re talking about Je Suis in the big house, I’m damn certain it is a hot topic of conversation on the streets of New Orleans.
I gather my tray of food—pasta with “meat” sauce, zucchini, fruit mix, and a cookie with no milk (fuckers)—with Naby on my tail. He’s not letting go, and I can’t say as though I blame him. He’s young and reminds me a lot of myself a few years back.
Lost. Vulnerable. Alone.
In essence, a prime target for getting involved with the wrong crowd. I make a silent, solemn vow to do better with Barnaby Shanks than Kaci ever did with me. All I can do is try. The kid is a sitting duck in a swamp full of gluttonous gators. He won’t survive long.
“Hey, Boston!” Tiny yells as we pass by his table. “Get your ass over here!”
I rapidly scan the packed dining hall for Milton and Mike. I don’t see them, but with this many inmates, I don’t think it’s unusual either.
Never one to be nervous by the differences in ethnicities, I sit—the only pseudo-white guy, because who is truly just white anymore?—at the table full of blacks. I stick out like a sore thumb, but I don’t care. Apparently, neither do they.
My father would hate this as much as cohorting with a half-baked mutt.
Growing up in a racially charged family, I learned early on to dull out the noise. I wasn’t buying into their slurs because Nonna didn’t. She spent an insane amount of time in her later years with an assorted rainbow of her quilting circle friends. It was in those formative years that I discovered I had one Nonna, but many grandmothers. Maybe those early lessons lent themselves to look beyond the cover.
Covers lie.
With Naby sitting across from me, we leave several spaces open on either side between Tiny and his crew, so we have some measure of privacy. “Have you been threatened?” I mutter under my breath. “Because you can tell me.”
“Not yet,” Naby says, taking a spoonful of the macaroni. “But…I know the looks.”
“So do I,” I reply, keeping my best game face. I don’t bend, buckle, or break as I hold my own and match the stares. The tension is thick, but the disorderly crowd of felons survives at this intense level every single day. I expect the racial division but note the anomalies, blurring the theory. I spot Milton and Mike in the mixed crowd of much older fellows. It isn’t cut and dry.
We finish what we can of our meal and head out for a walk. I’m packing a box of smokes as I complain, “I need a fucking lighter.”
Naby grabs my elbow and moves us to the side of the building where there are no guards. He pulls a box of matches from his pocket. “Hold up your hands and do it quickly,” he says, striking the match against the box.
I light the smoke and smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re not asking where I got them?”
Exhaling a cloud over our head, I reply, “Nup.”
We walk along the outermost edge where the grass is worn down from the runners. He’s thoughtful and too kind. “Are you…family?”
Picking up what Naby is tossing, I snarl. “Definite friend of…”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he says as we stop by the fence. “I just want someone to talk to.”
I squat, and he follows suit. “You picked me for a reason.”
“I picked you because you were the new guy with a nice smile. You didn’t look imposing.”
I can’t help but laugh. He doesn’t know me or the shit I’ve done. I’m far from innocent. But I understand why he would feel that way. “Did you do it?… Run the drugs?”
“Yeah, I did,” he mutters, intensely staring at me. “I got tired of being homeless and hungry. What about you?”
It doesn’t matter how much I connect with Naby or who he knows. I can’t blow my cover. “Murder.”
“Did you do it?”
I offer a sly smirk. “Not the one I’m being accused of. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” he whispers. His eyes match the overcast gloom in the sky as his lips upturn. I hate how beautiful he is and not because I’m concerned about the other inmates.
But because I’m concerned about me.
I have a thing for divinely wrecked pretty boys. I know my moniker. My extended Juliet family calls me Pretty Boy, but I never see myself that way. If anything, I think I’m average with a hard-earned physique that demands attention. Naby is genuinely stunning like a model, and my tribe would eat him alive.
More guys are exiting the mess hall as I notice a commotion, the upstart of what looks to be a fight. We stand as I light another smoke. I’ll keep my ass clean until the perfect moment arises. I’m still gunning for a stint in solitary. The crowd widens as the shouting grows louder, and I see the short Mexican going after some white guy. Only it isn’t just any short Mexican—it is Santino “Pico” Neves, my brother-in-law.
“Fuck!” I hiss, handing Naby my smoke. “Whatever you do, stay here. Got me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Shit. Don’t do that. Not now.
I have a clear path to the rumble, which is being ignored by the guards. I strip off the orange shirt because it is too restraining of my movements. Whoever the white guy is, he’s twice the size of Pico, and his last swing dropped him to the ground where he is getting pummeled in the face repeatedly by the guy’s fist.
Sprinting up behind the guy, I latch my arm around his neck and pull him off. He’s thick like a lineman, but not with muscle. He’s blubbery and not nearly as strong as me.
“Get up, Neves! Now!” I shout, backing us up as Pico skitters away. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“He fucking lost my shipment of drugs!” he yammers on, angrily. “Get the fuck off me!”
After Pico ducks away, I let him go, knowing full well he is coming after me. My chest heaves as I turn and walk away. Yeah, I did that on purpose.
Come after me, fucker.
He barrels into me like a freight train as I dodge to the side and nail him square in the nuts. I’m not doing this with him. He isn’t worth it to me. I don’t know who the fuck he is or what this is about, but Pico’s arrest was probably about getting inside for me. He may not like me personally, but if his club said to do it, he would because his eldest brother, Javier Neves, was rapidly accelerating in club rank.
I cock him once between the eyes and pray this ends soon. I note Sheriff Cameron and his team rushing to my aid. If anything, I embarrassed the schmuck.
“Handcock,” Cameron yells as his men leap on top of him. The zip tie laces around his wrists as they lift him and he spit
s close to my shoes.
“Motherfucker, we aren’t through!”
Stepping closer, I warn with a calm coolness, “If you touch Neves again, I will kill you.”
Cameron loops his arms around mine, holding me back. “Okay, that’s enough, Raniero.”
“… Raniero?” Handcock shouts loud enough for everyone to hear.
Oh. Fuck. A. Duck.
My jaw flexes as the one thing I didn’t want everyone to know is revealed. “You’re fucking Sal Raniero! You’re a goddamned son of a warlord!”
“I slit throats and lick the blade too! Fuck you!” Cameron turns me away, and I spot Naby, standing nervously at the fence and fanboying over me like I’m a God.
Shit. Hell. No.
“Come on, Sweet Sally, you’re making an impromptu visit to Warden Jolly.”
Fuck. Jolly.
16
Jolly
“You know I didn’t do it,” I say, staring at Cameron as we take the elevator up.
“It doesn’t matter what I know,” he says, hitting the stop button. He’s put together and exactly what you’d expect. Dark hair, hazel eyes, and decently built. He’s not my type, but he’s good looking. “What matters is keeping your ass safe,” he mutters, close enough his breath hits my skin. I know this isn’t going to be a mutually beneficial long-term relationship. Cody Cameron has a boner for me and I ain’t playing, Lotus or not. “And you need out of those pants,” he says, pulling the string to loosen them. “Real soon.”
I keep my focus on the what to do if someone is choking poster on the wall and think how they need a diagram for choking someone to death. I shift my steady gaze to him as his fingers graze beneath my navel.
“You really,” I strongly urge, “really don’t want to do what you’re about to do.”
“Not into the uniform?”
“Not into you,” I bluntly insult, reaching around him and hitting the button. The elevator cranks to life and we’re on the move.
“You’re going to regret that.”
“Not likely,” I rebuke. “Remember Cameron, I am Salvatore Raniero. I suggest you’re careful who you fuck with.”
The doors swing open at the Warden’s office. There is a hot little number sitting at the desk named Tam. She smiles at me and says to Cameron, “You can go on in.”
After depositing my ass inside the office, Cameron closes the door behind us. Warden Jolly’s high-back leather chair is facing the yard and tower in the distance. It’s a beautiful view. The chair spins toward me, and I’m met by long red hair, a natural smile, and sparkling emerald eyes like the sea.
“Good afternoon,” she politely says. Her delicate and demure voice is unexpected. She is probably twenty-five years older than me, but in a word—damn. And I mean—dayummm. I’m not usually turned on by appearances, but she is incredibly attractive.
“It’s almost six. I’ve already had dinner.”
“Pity, isn’t it?” she panders, lacing her fingers together. “Good late afternoon.”
I smirk. “Good late afternoon.”
Her eyes skim over my bare chest to my knuckles. “You’re bleeding, sit down.”
From her desk drawer, she pulls an absorbent medical pad, cleansing wash, and fresh bandages. I scoot forward as she preps her desk. “You don’t have to do…”
“Hush,” she says with a maternal reprimand. “I do because you’re my prized possession. My award-winning stallion. Aren’t you, Mr. Raniero?” I nod and accept her care. She gently removes the blood-soaked bandages from my left hand. “Ouch!” Her eyes flick up to meet mine, and I’m mesmerized by the intense green. “What did you do?”
“Punched a wall about a hundred times.”
“You’re a southpaw,” she says with a smile.
“I was never much for baseball. I’m more of a runner, soccer player. Ya, I’m predominantly left-handed but can be ambidextrous if the need arises.” I lift the right hand and note the red stains are soaking through the knuckles.
“Jesus, you don’t discriminate.”
“Never, Ma’am.” Her eyes dance up wildly on the ma’am, and I know I’m in good with Warden Jolly, which is great for me because my MILF-alert is redlining. Pouring the solution over the cuts, she licks her lips and rubs the pad of her fingers over the ends of mine.
“You have nice hands. You should avoid hitting my cinder block walls again.” She gives a flirtatious grin. “Do you know who I am?”
“Warden Jolly?”
Seems like as good of an answer as any.
“I’m Warden Kristina Hemsworth Jolly.”
Holy, fuck me.
“You’re Ella’s sister?”
“Yeah,” she replies, lifting her brows. “I’m younger by a few years. I have the Jolly from a failed marriage back in my twenties, but I kept it because it’s funny, right?”
“Uh…ya…” I stutter out, completely leveled by her admission. “You know who I am?”
“I was at Juliet the night you draped the Italian flag around yourself and handed out roses. Unfortunately, I wasn’t lucky enough to get one. I know who you are, Sally. You were the poster boy for the kinky BDSM school in Texas for several years there. You used to do a lot of charity work with Anna.”
“I did,” I say, almost blushing. “That seems like such a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” she consoles, irrigating my wounds again and blowing over my knuckles. “It’s tough.”
“So am I.”
“I know that,” she says, giving me a confidence boost. “I know you didn’t kill Lydia Kettles, and I’m not sure what you’re doing here.”
I take a breath, trying to decide how much I want to trust Warden Jolly. “I needed a place to hide for a while.”
“So, you come to my prison and cause shit?”
“I’m not standing idle in a fight, Ma’am.”
Blotting my skin, she starts to wrap them with the gauze roll. “I ought to send you to solitary for fighting, but in this case, you were right to defend Pico. You probably saved his life. Handcock is trouble.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, relaxing slightly. “And I’ve been encouraged to align with him.”
She snickers, “Because everyone is afraid of him. He’s kind of like your father.”
Shit.
I’m stuck with nothing to say. I look at my freshly wrapped hand. “Thank you.”
“How does it feel?”
“Good,” I answer as she repeats the process on my right hand.
“You should have had gauze on these since the beginning, not regular bandages,” she complains, pulling the sticky from my skin. “I need to know if you’re going to try and overturn Handcock’s rule of the block.”
“… Do you need me to?”
Her face enlivens with the amusing notion. “I’m not so sure you couldn’t do it.”
Carefully, I breach the subject as I ask the Warden if she needs my professional services. Snarls. “Do you need him gone?”
“It would make my life a lot easier,” she says, smiling. “We’re about at our wits end with Handcock. We can keep him in solitary, but his constant yelling, biting, and issue-causing forces our hand to let him out. It isn’t right, but the doctors refuse to medicate him out of fear.”
“Is his only stronghold here at Wiggs?”
“He’s involved with the Russian mafia, known as Allegiance, so his threats are widespread. People fear his power outside of our fences.”
“… What is he in for?”
“He murdered an attorney and his family in cold blood about ten years ago.”
“You happen to know the name of the attorney?”
“Daniel Childress.”
I make mental notes. “What’s Handcock’s real name?”
“Timothy Michael Handcock. He’s thirty-three.”
“You know Santino Neves is Cinco…”
Dousing my right knuckles, she sighs, “I’m aware. I wanted him someplace else. I put in the
request, but we’re so overcrowded statewide. Thing is—I don’t want a gang war breaking out on my turf. It’s not good for morale. Having Handcock and his men proves hard enough without bringing in their rivals from Cinco. Some of Handcock’s cronies are neo-Nazi, and I seriously fear for my prisoner’s lives every day.”
“If you want him eliminated,” I say, taking my left hand and grabbing her pen. She twitches once with anxiety, but I’m not going to stab her. I jot down the number on her calendar. “Call Kary Vega at that number.”
“Kary Vega?”
“Ya, he’s my boss,” I allude discreetly. “He gives the order, and I’ll remove your problem.”
“You realize that gets you targeted by Allegiance?”
I snort as she’s wrapping my hand. “I’ve got so many fucking barrels pointed at my head already. You think one more is going to change anything? I’m a mafioso’s son. I don’t walk in fear, but they’ve been trying to hit me since the day I was born.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need some protein powder because your food here sucks. And I need an inmate named Mock to get a needle in my skin.”
Her awareness of the things going on her cellblock causes a smile to flutter across her lips. “You want a pack of fresh needles for that?”
“If you can get them,” I reply. She stands up and walks to the locked closet. She unlocks and swings the doors open to reveal all of the contraband. Stacks and stacks of cellphones. Liquor bottles. Knives. Guns. Bullets. Drugs. Tools. Lockpicks. And loads of tattoo gear.
“Come here,” she says, displaying her stash to me. I don’t quite understand her motivations for letting me in. “You need anything?”
Feeling a little giddy, I scout over all the toys in her possession. “Besides some ink. I’d really like a notepad and a pencil.”
“Paper and pencil aren’t contraband if you’re behaving.”
“I know,” I say, smiling. “But that is what I need.”
“I’ll call the commissary, and you can pick up a dozen protein packets, a couple of notebooks, and a pencil.”
“Where does all this go?”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 14
