Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
We chat a bit longer before I hang up the phone, curious about what he’s got planned for me. Money, maybe, so I can pick shit up in the canteen. New books, even better. Already plowed through every damn thing he’s sent and most of the books that interest me on the prison’s library shelves. It won’t be food, which sucks since I’d give fucking anything for a plate of Nonna’s pasta or Mama’s panzerotti. And it sure as fuck won’t be a goddamn conjugal visit lined up for me, thanks to Boston’s puritanical ways.
I slug down breakfast like medicine—tasteless oatmeal and burnt sausage—drink the swill they call coffee and toss down an orange for the hell of it. Suppose if they used oranges to fight scurvy back in the day when traveling by ship, couldn’t hurt behind bars.
I do another workout after breakfast and check on deliveries. Nothing from Romeo. When I come back, nearby cellmates are yelling out chess moves. We can’t play actual chess here, so the more astute yell out moves for a mental game.
“My bishop takes your bishop,” Dario says, giving me a wink when I get back.
“You winning?”
“When am I not winning, man?” he asks. True.
I stand for the fourth damn roll call, wondering if Romeo was just blowing smoke up my ass. That’s not who he is, though. Romeo’s word is law, damn near carved into tablets like the commandments from Sinai.
I’m thinking. Mulling shit over. Finally, I clear my throat.
“Dario.” I keep my voice low, so no one hears. “You know who I am, brother?”
He sobers and nods. “I do, man.” His eyes shoot to the skulls inked on my knuckles, before looking at the rose on my forearm. “I do.” There’s fear in his eyes I didn’t expect, and it dawns on me that he might think I’m threatening him. Wouldn’t be the first time I bared my forearm as a claim to the Rossi brotherhood. Sometimes it helps to reference your status as an established brother of high rank in the most powerful organized crime ring in New England. Sometimes it doesn’t.
I continue to keep my voice low. "When you get out of here," I say in a little whisper, "you come and find me. Do you know where to find me?"
He nods and swallows audibly. "I do."
“The fucking car theft landed you here. You come see me and I'll give you a better job than that."
We're always recruiting new men to our brotherhood, always swearing men in with vows of allegiance, obedience, fidelity, and honor. The original core of our ring is related by blood, but when we find someone worthy of the oath of Omertà, we're not above recruiting. And I know this man to be loyal, hard-working, and fucking ruthless.
It's time to hit the shower. I follow behind Dario, but when we get there, the usual guards are gone. My stomach clenches, my instincts primed. Shit.
Dario meets my eyes in a silent vote of confidence, and I give him a nod. Not a touch of fear in his gaze.
My eyes quickly linger on the scarred floors, marred by sharpened shanks. The shower is one of the most notorious places for a beatdown.
Someone overheard our conversation. Should’ve fucking known it.
“Orlando!” Dario shouts. I duck when I see him look over my shoulder, on instinct, and a fist flies through the air where my head just was. Adrenaline courses through me, excitement weaving its way through my limbs.
The brothers in my ring of men have been trained in many things. Interrogation, money laundering, intimidation tactics, among other things.
Me? I've been trained to fight.
I duck one blow, only to take one in the side. I elbow my attacker without a second thought and feel my elbow crack ribs. Dario has my second attacker in a headlock beside me, but the third barrels at me full force, knocking the wind out of me. While I’m heaving for breath, my attacker walks around me.
“You think because you’re a Rossi, your shit don’t stink?”
He circles me with a blade. I don’t respond. There’s no response to someone taunting me except to wipe this concrete floor with his face. I flex my fingers.
I don't have time to get away. He lunges for me, but I quickly dodge him. Not fast enough. His head rams into my solar plexus, winding me. I'm knocked on my ass. But I'm so furious, I come up swinging. He drives at me, slices along my arm. And then in one quick move I grab his wrist and go to snap it.
Dario shouts, "Orlando, no! You're out of here man. They’re jealous. They don't want you out."
I knock one out cold and don't give him the beating he deserves. Dario sits on the second. The third I restrain with my own bare hands. Son of a bitch.