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She laughs coldly. “They’re fucking whores. Cum receptacles whose only task is to spread their legs and take what they’re given. If they don’t like it, they can always find something else to do with their lives.”
“You can’t be that naïve.”
“I’m not the naïve one, Nova. You are. I know how our world works. Do you think you’re special because you get to play with the boys? Get over yourself. All those men you think have your back now wouldn’t think twice about fucking you until you bleed if you stepped out of line. Know your place, Nova, and keep your nose out of mine and Aldo’s relationship.”
I stand there stunned, Alessio’s words about Gia being a monster coming back to haunt me. I don’t know why I still care.
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” I turn and walk away, stopping in the doorway when she calls my name.
“Just do your job and stay out of my business. You might think you know better, but the difference between you and me is that you’re replaceable. I’m not. Don’t push me.”
She turns as I leave, and I shake my head at the fucking irony.
My phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket, frowning when I see it’s Alessio. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know everything is set. I’ve managed to get you in to see Vice.”
I swallow and steady my nerves. “When?”
“Day after tomorrow. You ready for this?”
No, not even a little bit.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
Chapter 7
Vice
The sound of someone bawling makes my cock hard. I crack my neck and turn to the cell beside mine, imagining the newbie inside it.
Everyone is so cocksure of themselves when they get here, but there is something about the sound of the door slamming shut on the six-by-eight-foot cell that’s now home for the next however many years that hits hard.
I turn back to look at the stain on the ceiling, humming a tune that’s been stuck in my head all day. I slide my hand into my sweatpants and fist my cock, slowly stroking it up and down. Having a cell to myself means I don’t need to hide what I’m doing—not that I’d give a shit about that anyway. If there is one thing being in prison has done for me, it’s stripped away the sense of decency and decorum my old man and brother tried to instill in me.
I tried to do what they wanted, tried to make them happy, not because I felt I owed them anything, but because it made my lifeeasier. Now, I don’t fucking care. Ten years is a long time to spend behind bars. You learn to exist in a bubble while the rest of the world moves on without you.
I tighten my grip and stroke myself faster as my new neighbor’s breath hitches. There is something about the sound of despair that just does it for me. Some would say it’s fucked up. Lord knows I’ve made many therapists rich from trying to figure me out. I’ve picked up more than a few labels along the way, but I don’t put stock in any of them. I made peace with who I am years ago. It’s everyone else who has a problem.
As the crying picks up in intensity, I groan, the sweet sound of anguish making my cock throb in time with the wailing. I try to drag it out, take my time and enjoy the moment, but I’m too worked up. By the time I spill my cum all over my hand and stomach, the newbie next door has quieted down.
If he thinks the first night is bad, he’s in for a rude awakening. I won’t be the only one who heard him crying. Sound carries like a motherfucker in this place. Everyone in this block will see the new guy as weak, making him a shiny new toy for them to play with. I could stop them, of course. Most people listen when I speak. But I don’t get involved in shit that doesn’t affect me.
Nobody is innocent in this place. Whatever happens to him will be deserved. Nothing serves up karma quite like the United States prison system, especially if you don’t have the connections I do on the outside.
I grab my t-shirt from the end of the bed and use it to clean myself up before getting up and taking a piss. I still have an hour before lights out, so I work out for a bit, pushing myself until my muscles tremble. Keeping fit is one of the few ways to passthe time in here. Though I was fit before, it’s nothing compared to the body I’ve honed now.
When the lights go out, I drop down and do a couple hundred push-ups, hoping it might help me sleep, though I know it won’t. You’d think after all this time, I would have adjusted to the sounds of others sleeping nearby—the never-ending snoring, farting, sighing, and crying. But I never let my guard down. It’s too ingrained. A trauma response, according to one of my therapists, from waking up in bed to find a gun pressed against my temple when I was eight.
Whatever the reason, I’m unlikely to change now. I’ve adapted to surviving on very little sleep. My body would probably go into shock if I ever did manage a full eight hours. I keep pushing myself until the noise around me eventually fades. I crawl into bed, just as the sky starts to lighten, and drift off.
It feels like I’ve only been out for minutes—if that—when the sound of my cell door opening wakes me.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up as Harry, one of the guards, enters. “Moretti,” he greets casually. As far as guards go, Harry’s not so bad. He’s easily bought and turns a blind eye when necessary. He just has no loyalty.
“What can I do for you, Harry?”
“Not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.”
