Page 31 of Sweet Prison
I’m nearly at my favorite pull-up bar by the iron pile where I like to hang out when two guys split off from the larger group by the fence and head my way. Late twenties. Heavily muscled. I’ve seen them in the chow hall, but we’ve never interacted. Before now, they kept to themselves and out of my way. If memory serves, both are lifers.
They approach with caution, hands held behind their backs. I move so I’m directly under the pull-up bar and wait. The men exchange a quick look. And then, they charge me. Each wielding a knife.
I jump, grab ahold of the bar, and kick the nearest asshole’s chest with both of my feet, sending him flying backward. Leaping down, I land right next to the other attacker, just as he swipes his weapon at me. Not a tiny, easily concealedswitchblade, but a big-ass thirteen-inch retractable stiletto. I punch him in the face while he plunges his knife into my left shoulder. The fucker stumbles back, spraying the packed dirt with blood as he shakes his head.
My shoulder feels like it’s on fire when I wrench the blade from my flesh. Gripping the hilt, I bury the steel in the shithead’s belly, aiming for his liver. He screams and backs up, pressing his hands to the gushing wound with the protruding dagger.
“Spada! Watch out!” someone yells.
I spin around just in time to avoid getting stabbed in the back and grab the other dickwad’s wrist. Squeezing, I enjoy the melody of grinding bones. With my other hand, I grip the front of the guy’s shirt and, mentally blocking another jolt of pain in my shoulder, slam my forehead into his ugly mug. Not giving him time to recover, I drive my knee into his midsection and send him toppling to the ground. A cloud of dust rises around us as I drop onto his chest and wrap my hands around his throat.
“Who sent you?” I snarl.
“I don’t… know.”
I squeeze his neck harder. “I’m going to kill you, and then I’ll go after your family! Who was it?”
“I… I swear,” he wheezes. “I don’t know. The new guard, on the morning shift… paid us off.”
“Name?!” I roar into his rapidly purpling face.
Hands grab me from behind, pulling me off the asshole. I try to fight them off, but three COs wrestle me away and start dragging me out of the yard. I keep raging, digging my feet into the ground and throwing punches indiscriminately when I feel a pinch on the side of my neck. My muscles immediately go slack as if they’ve turned to jelly, and a few breaths later, everything fades to black.
***
The stench of mold invades my nostrils. I don’t even need to open my eyes to know where I am. Solitary confinement. My frequent stopover; a home away from home every couple of months. What does it say when I can pinpoint the hole by its smell?
The screech of metal behind me signals the cell door opening. With a groan, I roll over on the putrid mattress and eye my visitor. My buddy Sam’s face floats in front of me, my vision still blurred from the tranquilizer I got spiked with.
“I need you to find a way for me to speak with those two motherfuckers,” I croak.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Spada.” He sets a tray of food on the rusty desk next to the bunk. “They offed each other shortly after they were brought to the infirmary.”
“How convenient. Who was on guard at the ward while they managed to get that done?”
“Some new guy. He was transferred here two days ago, but I haven’t caught his name, yet.”
“Is there a way I can have a chat with him?”
Sam straightens and takes a quick look over his shoulder before replying. “Seems he was in a traffic accident on his way home. He didn’t make it.”
I shake my head, but not because the fucking thing is still ringing. Though it is.
Alright, someone wants me dead. And when their plan to take me out failed, they quickly covered their tracks.
The fact that they tried isn’t what’s bothering me. It’s the timing.
This scheme was put into place right after Nuncio was assassinated. A coincidence or something more?
You don’t believe in coincidences.
No, I don’t.
Nuncio’s death and the attack on me must be connected. But how? What am I not seeing? And who the fuck would benefit from having my stepfather dead?
There’s no trouble brewing between our Family and other organizations, I made sure of that. And business has been booming, so it can’t be for money. Power, that’s the only logical motive. And if I’m right, it leaves Leone as the suspect. He’s the only one who stands to gain substantially with Nuncio out of the picture. Did he somehow get a whiff of who’s really been running things in Boston and decided to take me out, too?
Jesus fuck!What if he found out that Zahara had been feeding me inside info?