Breaking The Chains (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Still, I don’t move. I may be incarcerated, but no one makes me fucking dance.

  “I ain’t going anywhere with you, motherfucker,” I hiss in response.

  “What’s the matter, you scared you’re going to wind up like that junkie cellmate of yours?” he taunts, inching closer so he’s in my face, staring down at me with that sinister smile of his. The urge to spit at him eats at me as I meet his gaze. That would be too easy. I’m an army of one, with nothing to lose. When I sink my claws into this cunt, I’m gonna make him bleed and wish his mother aborted him.

  “Blackie was big time around here,” he says. “Everyone wanted a piece of him—black, white, yellow and brown. I should’ve held out some, probably would’ve made twice as much as I did, but those Mexicans were fucking relentless, they were hungry for him. There ain’t nobody here willing to trade a candy bar for you. You’re nothing but a piece of shit a couple of cops scraped off the street trying to make their quota. I know your story, Bishop, and I know about your boy, so it’d be wise of you not to make any waves around here because all I gotta do is run my mouth down this cell block and you won’t be able to take a shower without looking over your shoulder.”

  At the mention of my son, I sit up and throw my legs over the cot. You can fuck with me, but my son is off-limits.

  “Keep my son out of this,” I fire back.

  He straightens his posture, threading his thumbs through the belt loops of his uniform and squares his shoulders back, exuding arrogance.

  “A little late to play the role of the protective father, no? Don’t fuck with me Bishop or I’ll tell every man tagged in this joint you’re the one who abused him. These guys don’t got a lot of morals, but when it comes to kids…they’ll fucking gut you and make you wish you were dead.”

  This stupid fuck actually thinks that’s a threat. He doesn’t know I’d take the punishment without argument. Those bastards could rip me to shreds, tear my heart from my chest and trample all over my pride and it still won’t be enough. Nothing anyone does to me will compare to the pain and suffering I allowed my son to endure.

  Lifting my head, I stare into his beady eyes.

  “Do it,” I dare, clenching my jaw.

  Assessing me, he raises an eyebrow. He probably thinks I’m full of shit, that I’ll cower against the torture and beg for someone to put me out of my misery, but I crave pain. Why do you think I haven’t killed myself? I haven’t had my fill of suffering yet.

  “You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

  Maybe.

  Or maybe I’m just a father who wronged his boy, searching for his penance.

  He turns around and struts out of my cell, pausing at the bars.

  “Let’s go, your lawyer is here.”

  I don’t have any hearings scheduled and as far as I know, there is no shot of me getting out of here on the merit of good behavior which only means this impromptu visit from my public defender has more to do with my son and less to do with me.

  My heart clenches at the thought and I let the douche bag lead me down the cell block. We reach the visitor’s room and he hands me off to another guard, promising to return in forty-five minutes to take me back to my cell, the standard time permitted by the warden.

  I let my eyes roam around the room, searching for the pencil-pushing prick of an attorney who took my case and has done shit to help me, but I come up short. Figuring this is another bullshit move on the correctional officers’ part, I turn to face the two cocksuckers.

  “My attorney ain’t here,” I grind out, curling my fists.

  They exchange a look and the one in charge of the visitor’s room pulls a clipboard from the wall. I watch as his finger travels over the paper, pausing when he finds my name.

  “Says here your lawyer is David Schwartz,” he reads off the paper before lifting his eyes to mine. “Stepped in shit, did you?”

  I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. My lawyer is Alan Greenberg, the stupidest motherfucker ever to pass the Bar Exam. The guard doesn’t elaborate, though. Instead, he juts his chin and stares across the room. Turning my head, I follow his gaze. Sitting at a table, dressed in a suit that probably costs more than I’ve ever earned legally, the clean-cut man glances at the gold watch on his wrist and annoyance flashes across his face. He turns to his right, and that’s when I notice he’s not alone. Next to him sits a woman with wild brown hair, wearing a blazer that’s three sizes too big for her and a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses. They’re not the kind of glasses sexy schoolteacher fantasies are made of. No, those things are way too big for her face and slide down her pert nose.

  Whatever he says to her has her reaching for a pen and paper. She nods her head at every word and scribbles some notes as he crosses one leg over his knee and continues. Suddenly, the pen pauses and with her free hand, she reaches for the stack of files in front of her. They go tumbling off the table, papers flying from them and the man next to her rolls his eyes to the sky.

  Looks like I’ve traded one clown for two more.

  Curious, I make my way towards them. As I near the legal duo, I overhear the man reprimand the girl who is crawling across the dirty prison floor. The brown fitted knee-length skirt she’s wearing stretches across her round ass as she collects the loose papers. I quickly tear my eyes away from her, but the lawyer blatantly ogles her.

  “Who hired you again?”

  She pauses and pokes her head out from under the table.

  “Your father, sir,” she mutters.

  “Of course he did because if that man isn’t making my life hell he’s not happy,” he hisses, cocking his head. “For fuck’s sake, you’re wearing a skirt. Get off the floor before you give every convict in here new material.”

  He’s right, to most men here, she’s a welcomed sight, but I could give a fuck less. I don’t remember the last time I wrapped my hand around my cock and if the urge ever strikes, I sure won’t be slapping my cock to the mousy brunette on the floor.

  She scrambles out from under the table, bumping her head against it and mumbles an ouch. Rubbing her temple, she moves to take the seat next to him but suddenly stills. Her hand drops from her head and her cheeks go pink as she reaches around her, sliding a hand over the curve of her ass.

  “Oh my God,” she hisses mortified.

  “What is it? Did you lose a paper clip down there?” he mocks, looking unimpressed.

  “My skirt ripped,” she whispers, clearly embarrassed. Those three words get the lawyer's attention and he leans over to get a better look. Feigning indifference, he shrugs his shoulders before settling back in his chair.

  “It’s not that bad,” he assures her. “Tie that smock you’re wearing around your waist and call it a day.”

  “Smock?” she asks, blinking slowly. “You mean my blazer?”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want to call that thing,” he replies, giving her ass another glance as she tries to sit without splitting the seam more.

  I keep my eyes on the suit and wait for him to acknowledge my presence. It takes a minute for him to peel his eyes away from the woman’s ass but when he finally does, he meets my gaze and straightens in his seat.

  “Gabriel Bishop?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Great,” he mutters, smoothing a hand over his tie. “Another cocky criminal,” he adds under his breath before pointing to the metal seat in front of him. “Sit. You’re late and these visits are timed. I’m David Schwartz, attorney and miracle worker and the girl with the slit up her rear is my paralegal, Cheryl.”

  The brunette who is busy trying to remain perfectly still suddenly jerks her head towards her boss.

  “Charlotte.”

  “What?” Schwartz questions.

  “My name isn’t Cheryl, it’s Charlotte.”

  Schwartz rolls his eyes and diverts his attention back to me as I pull out the chair and fold my frame into it. My gaze darts between the arrogant lawyer and his assistant. If I wasn’t
so confused by their presence, I might take the time to look at her because behind those ridiculous glasses are a pair of the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. I can’t tell if they’re light brown or if they’re hazel, but they’re fucking fascinating and in another life, I wouldn’t mind dissecting all those hues and every fleck of gold.

  In this life, I ignore her.

  “I don’t know who the fuck you are or what your ammo is, but my lawyer is Alan Greenberg.”

  Schwartz cringes at the name.

  “It’s no wonder you’re in the mess you’re in. That guy is a fucking putz,” he says, turning to Charlotte. “Make a note to call Greenberg’s office and tell him his services are no longer needed on this case, from today forward Mr. Bishop is represented by me and while you’re at it, tell him he’s an asshole.”

  “Do you really want me to tell him that?’ Charlotte asks, awkwardly shifting in her chair.

  Clearly annoyed she spoke; he fixes her with an exasperated look, and I lose my fucking patience. I have no idea why this guy and his sidekick are here and a case like mine is not one to be taken lightly. Not when there is a helpless little boy at stake.

  Frustrated, I slam my hand against the metal table. The aggressive behavior startles Charlotte and causes her to jump slightly. The files she neatly stacked a moment ago fall to the floor again, but she doesn’t rush to pick them up. Instead, she remains completely still, staring fearfully at me with those pretty eyes of hers.

  Ignoring her, I keep my narrowed gaze trained on the man in front of me.

  “I don’t know what the fuck is going on here or who sent you, but I don’t have time to waste fucking around with the likes of you. My son’s safety depends on me getting out of here and every second I’m in this fucking cage is another second he’s in danger.”

  Unlike his assistant, Schwartz remains completely impassive. He unbuttons his suit jacket and leans over the table, fixing me with a hard glare.

  “Listen here, you ungrateful son of a bitch, my firm has been retained by Dominic Petra and Jack Parrish. Apparently, you struck a chord with your former cellmate because he’s paying me a lot of fucking money to help you get your boy out of that vile fucks hands. Now, if you hang up the tough guy act, I can explain how this shit is going to work.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I wait for him to elaborate. I was awful to Blackie. From the second he dropped his linens on his bunk, I gave him shit and I nearly fucking took his life when I found him staring at a photograph of Conner.

  So I didn’t hold any bars when I was questioned after his attack and gave all those cunts who fucked with him up, big deal. Blackie probably doesn’t even know about that. None of this makes any sense.

  “Blackie hired you to defend me?”

  “Yeah, so quit acting like an entitled prick and let me do my job,” he growls, leaning back against his chair. “I’m having your case files transferred to my office…” His voice fades as he turns to Charlotte, who is still staring at me like I’m the devil incarnate. “Cheryl, put that on the list,” he says before turning back to me. “Parrish briefed me on some shit. Where is the boy now?”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I recall the last visit I had with Greenberg. He wasn’t a family court attorney and had only taken my criminal case, but I guess the guy took pity on me because he’d update me on Connor occasionally. That day, he informed me my boy had been taken out of Pete’s care and would remain with the state until the case went to trial, and Connor testified against him.

  “Last I heard CPS had him,” I reply hoarsely.

  “Do you know the name of his caseworker?”

  I swallow, forcing down the lump and divert my eyes away from Schwartz. Admitting I put Connor in the position to be abused is always the worst part.

  “Before I found out what was going on and I got locked up, I had supervised visits with him. Our caseworker was Shay Donaldson,” I reply, clearing my throat. “I don’t know if she’s still the point of contact.”

  I’d like to think if she was, he’d make an effort to keep me in the loop but after I got pinched on the home invasion, I probably burned that bridge too.

  “Make a note of that,” Schwartz orders his paralegal before glancing at his watch. “I’m due in court. Cheryl, here, will take over,” he adds as he pushes back his chair. Rising to his full height, he grabs his briefcase and points a finger at Charlotte. “Make sure you cover everything.”

  “Mr. Schwartz, I…you…” her voice trails as she nervously pushes her hair away from her face. Blowing out an exasperated breath, she looks from me to him. “You can’t be serious, sir, “she whispers.

  “Your resume says you graduated from John Jay College, is that right?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then you’re more than qualified to brief Mr. Bishop on his case,” he replies before slicing his eyes back to me. “I won’t make any promises, that’s not my style, but I’m the best criminal attorney in the tri-state area.”

  “I don’t need a criminal attorney; I need someone to help Connor. He’s gotta testify against his uncle or that piece of shit walks and he’ll be back in his custody.”

  The last part of that sentence has my fists clenching on top of the table as I picture Connor sitting in some bullshit group home by himself. There’s also a possibility of a foster home, which doesn’t sit well with me either. The truth is, ever since I found out he was taken away from Pete my fear has been that he left one hell to be tossed into another one. The only way I’ll know he’s safe is if he’s with me.

  “Who better to help him than the man who brought him into this world?” Schwartz questions pointedly, pushing in the chair he’s vacated. He’s about to step away when Charlotte grabs a hold of his forearm. Rooted in place, he glances at the spot she’s touching before prying her fingers off him.

  Her cheeks flame.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Schwartz…it’s just…well…” she pauses again, pulling her hair away from her face. Holding the massive curls in a bundle on top of her head, she roughly wraps a rubber band around them before stabbing the bun with her pen. With her hair out of her face and her glasses falling off her nose, she lifts her doe eyes to her boss and shakes her head. “I don’t know if I’m a good fit for this case.”

  I stare at the awkward brunette and a grunt escapes me.

  Yeah, those aren’t the words I want to hear.

  -Five-

  Charlotte

  Past

  Entering Riker’s Island, going through those metal detectors and being escorted to the visitor’s room brought back all unwanted memories and reminded me of all the reasons why I enrolled myself in John Jay College of Criminal Justice.

  For a moment a feeling of pride filled my chest, and I thought, hey, look at you, you made it. Not only had I nailed a job with one of New York City’s most influential law firms, but I was appointed to work with the headline king himself, David Schwartz. He had a reputation for being cocky in the courtroom, a title I’m not sure he earned on his own merits. His father, on the other hand, he was a total rock star in court and managed to keep some of the most notorious criminals out of prison. Wiseguys like Victor Pastore, the late mobster who ruled the streets of New York and his son-in-law, Anthony Bianci.

  Recently, the elder Schwartz relocated to the west coast, leaving his only son in charge of the throne, but being a playboy is hard work and the senior Schwartz keeps tabs on his heir. In fact, he’s the one who interviewed me via Skype and gave me the job. I didn’t know I’d be working under his son until I showed up this morning and yeah; you guessed it, today is my first day on the job. What better way to screw with the new girl than to throw her to a pack of wolves?

  Or in my case, the lone wolf who goes by the name of Gabriel Bishop.

  I had barely put my briefcase down when David rounded my cubical and ordered me to follow him. I thought I was headed into his cushy corner office, but we headed for the elevators and straight for the shiny town car that waited
at the curb. In between the several phone calls and video chatting with his current bedmate he briefed me on Bishop’s case.

  Apparently, David was retained by his clients, Dominic Petra, also known as Blackie, the former vice-president of the Satan’s Knights motorcycle club and the former president, Jack Parrish, both of whom have had their names splashed all over the front page of the newspapers lately. From what I gather, they hired him to help Bishop’s son, a young boy whom he doesn’t have custody of. There isn’t much to be found in Bishop’s file, so I don’t know why he doesn’t have custody of his son, but I do know the man who was appointed guardianship is also the man who sexually abused him.

  Now the fate of that little boy lies in Schwartz’s hands and I’m the one responsible for collecting all the information he’s going to need to get him out of the system and reunited with his convicted felon of a father—well, at least I think that’s what I’m supposed to be doing. But, seeing how Bishop is as intimidating as the day is long, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. The last thing I want a part in is throwing an innocent child from a frying pan to a fire. I’m nervous, questioning my place in all of this and to make matters worse, my skirt ripped. So, yeah, I’m currently sitting in a prison, surrounded by well, inmates, with a giant slit up my ass.

  Thank god for granny panties.

  As far as first days go, I think it’s safe to say this one sucks.

  “Are you going to talk or are we just going to sit here?” Bishop grunts, forcing my attention away from the legal pad in front of me. Sliding my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I lift my head and stare across the table at him.

  It almost hurts to look at him. With a strong jaw covered in a day’s growth and a generous mouth, he’s quite handsome. But his eyes have me turning my head. They say a person’s eyes are the windows to their souls, well, Bishop’s are definitely beautiful in color, but they’re full of regret and unspeakable torment. One glance into them and I’m certain Gabriel Bishop is a man with a dark soul.

  I chance another look and immediately begin to wonder how a guy like him goes wrong in life. Is there some pivotal moment when he decides to wreck his life or is he a victim of unfortunate circumstances?