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I turned and watched him pass – and that’s when I noticed something:
The angry guy who’d been muttering behind me looked like he’d just seen a ghost.
His face was pale, and his eyes were wide as he watched the handsome stranger walk past.
I figured I had brushed up against someone dark and dangerous and lived to tell the tale. Like encountering the Grim Reaper on a midnight stroll past the graveyard.
Little did I know how accurate that assessment was…
Or how quickly we would meet again.
94
Aday later, I was in the east yard soaking up some sunshine.
A ‘yard’ in prison is an outside area where prisoners can congregate. With six massive wings radiating from a central hub, San Vittore had multiple yards between its buildings.
The east yard was a patch of concrete and asphalt the size of a small football field. Most of the prisoners in my cell block congregated there during free time.
Some lifted weights; others played football (soccer to you Americans). Old-timers played bocce, an Italian version of horseshoes where wooden balls were tossed into a patch of sand.
There were old wooden bleachers against one wall, where the most powerful men sat – silver-haired mafiosos in their 50s or 60s. They were surrounded by younger bodyguards, and they watched everything that went on in the yard like kings lording over a court.
A lot of inmates were smoking cigarettes. A few were probably conducting surreptitious drug deals, using handshakes to transfer baggies of cocaine and meth that had been smuggled into the prison. The weakest and most pitiful inmates skulked in the shadows, trying not to draw anyone’s attention.
I was thinking of Rachel – and wondering if I should call Gunnar to see if he had made any progress finding her – when the handsome stranger from the other day walked into the yard.
He was alone, but he walked with the calm assurance of a man who knew he was absolutely safe.
The actions of the other inmates seemed to confirm it. Most of them scuttled out of his way or threw furtive glances in his direction. No one dared stare him in the eye for longer than a second.
The handsome man walked past the wooden bleachers. One of the old-timers – from what I could tell, one of the most powerful men in the yard – said something, and the younger man paused to talk.
The younger man said something that made the older man laugh – not in a fake or threatening way, but like he was sincerely amused. They exchanged a few pleasantries, and then the stranger moved on.
I was watching him and trying to figure out who the hell he was when I saw someone sneaking up behind him.
The guy was stocky and tattooed. He was walking too fast for a casual stroll, and I saw that his right hand was cupped inwards like he was concealing something – probably a shiv.
Shivs were improvised weapons for stabbing. They were long and sharp – stilettos rather than blades. They were made for puncturing, not cutting. They could be fashioned from anything, although some of the more common materials were plastic toothbrushes whose handles had been whittled down to a savage point, or metal bolts that had been filed to a wicked tip.
The purpose of a shiv was to poke so many holes in a man’s body that he would bleed to death before the guards could get him to the infirmary. The kidneys were a favorite target, although occasionally attackers went for the belly or throat.
The stocky man was about to shiv the handsome stranger in the back – I was sure of it.
I don’t know why I reacted the way I did. Maybe it was because the stranger had treated me with dignity. Or maybe it was his aura of nobility – that charisma he had that stood out from all the other bastards in San Vittore.
Whatever the reason, I sprinted towards him as I screamed in English, “WATCH OUT!”
The handsome stranger glanced at me, then whipped around to look behind him.
The thug realized he had lost the element of surprise and only had a second to act.
He lunged forward –
And stabbed the stranger in the stomach.
I expected to see surprise or pain on the stranger’s face –
