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Then there was the constant stress of being on high alert 24 hours a day. Even though I was the only person in my cell now, I didn’t have a reprieve at night – because I found out that an inmate’s cell could be opened at any point by crooked guards.
My third night in prison, I heard a cell door clanking open in the middle of the night, followed by the muffled cries of a man being stabbed to death. The next morning, the occupant of the cell was ‘found’ dead and taken to the morgue.
His cellmate claimed he hadn’t heard a thing. I didn’t know whether he was complicit in the murder or just didn’t want to anger the killers, but it didn’t matter. The message was clear: you were never safe, even behind locked doors.
My situation was infinitely worse because I didn’t speak Italian. I had no idea if people were plotting against me when they whispered to others in my presence. I constantly ran afoul of the guards and got clubbed several times when I didn’t comply with their orders fast enough. And everywhere I looked, people stared me down and gave me murderous stares. A simple bump against someone in the hallway was an invitation to be shivved or beaten to a pulp.
I think the only reason I wasn’t challenged that first week was because I’d put my former cellmate in the infirmary. Word spread fast, and people left me alone – but that wouldn’t protect me forever. Sooner or later, I would run afoul of someone. It was only a matter of time.
I quickly realized there were divisions within the prison and that being on one side or another gave you some degree of protection. But I had no idea what those divisions were. 95% of the prisoners were white, so it had nothing to do with race – and I was quickly coming to realize that not understanding those fault lines could be deadly.
I wasn’t worried about beating anyone in hand-to-hand combat. Most of my fellow prisoners were street brawlers – no technique, sloppy, all brawn and no brain.
The problem was, if eight inmates came at me at once, virtually nothing I could do would save me. I had no weapons, no alliances, and no way of obtaining either as long as I couldn’t communicate.
I had told my lawyer not to worry – that I would do whatever it took to survive my five-year sentence. But as the days wore on, it became clear that it was going to be much more difficult than I’d thought.
And then… everything changed virtually overnight.
93
Aweek after my arrival, I accidentally bumped into a prisoner.
It was in a narrow corridor between the cellblock and the laundry. I was walking to my job when I heard a man muttering angrily in Italian behind me.
I was concerned he might jump me, so I turned to glare at him –
When my shoulder bumped into someone walking in the opposite direction.
Normally, this was an opportunity for two assholes to get into a shoving match to establish who was the alpha.
You could not afford to show weakness in prison – and tolerating even a hint of disrespect was interpreted as weakness. Which is why an innocent bump in the hallway could quickly spiral into a fistfight.
I spun around, ready to throw a punch –
And I saw the most extraordinary man.
Unlike the other prisoners I’d encountered, he was incredibly handsome. His mustache and short beard were perfectly trimmed, his hair immaculately in place. Though he wore the same beige uniform I did, he looked more like a model in a photo shoot than an inmate in one of the most dangerous prisons in Italy.
But though he was handsome, there was something cruel and dangerous about his face. His dark eyes were piercing and intelligent, and his gaze carried the implied threat of violence. Not hot violence, born of rage – but the kind of cold cunning where a man would slit your throat when you least expected it.
There were tattoos visible at the open neck of his shirt, but unlike the shitty prison tats I’d seen on 90% of the inmates – crude pictures and words made with sewing needles and homemade ink – his tattoos were amazing, like they’d been done by a skilled artist.
There was also a quiet confidence to him. Something like nobility, as crazy as that sounds. Most inmates projected outsized swagger to intimidate everyone, but it was based on the fear of appearing weak. A few of the older silver-haired inmates had the quiet confidence of the man in front of me, but it was obvious they were bosses in control of gangs. This guy was my age, and yet he carried himself with the gravitas of someone 30 years older.
He was like a prince amongst savages.
He looked at me with cold, appraising eyes but didn’t say anything. Almost as though he was waiting for me to make my intentions clear.
I didn’t know exactly why, but something told me it would be foolish to pick a fight with him – so I simply said, “Scusi.”
He looked deep into my eyes –
And after half a second, he nodded slightly and answered in a deep, resonant voice. “Di niente.”
I had no idea what the words meant, but his tone sounded like No worries.
Then he simply kept walking.
