Page 39 of Devious Roses
It’s obvious everybody sits in factions. However temporary their stay at the facility is, they all lock into cliques. Even Elmer joins a table of other men that match his vibe—older men with serious yet quiet dispositions.
There seems to be a table for every kind of guy. Whatever box they fit into, whether that’s based off age, skin color, or some other identifier like a gang tattoo.
I wipe my tray clean, ending my meal with the milk as I think about the rest of the morning. Elmer said we usually return to our cells after breakfast. I’ll use the time to write my first letter to Delphine…
“So it’s true. We’ve got ourselves a big, bad mobster in the house.”
A group of guys, all wearing the same sneer on their faces, surround my table. They appear out of nowhere, like they’ve coordinated when to close in. The ringleader emerges through the ranks and slides onto the bench opposite mine. Both arms inked with full sleeves, he folds them onto the table, and stares at me like I’m his new entertainment.
“We’ve got ourselves a real mafioso on our hands,” he says, flashing crooked teeth. “How very intimidating.”
Snickers break out among the guys gathered around my table.
I don’t react, maintaining my bearing despite what’s an obvious effort to get a rise out of me. I’ve dealt with these types before. As a teenager working at Rhino’s club, as a young adult working my way up the ladder in Lucius’s organization. Even as a newcapowith a crew of men under me, and most recently, as the new Don of the family.
They’ve got no idea who they’re dealing with.
These types of confrontations are predictable, regardless of the jail setting. It’s nothing more than a pissing contest men start up when trying to establish a pecking order. They need to figure a newcomer out and test how he reacts and could potentially shift group dynamics.
That newcomer beingme.
I sip more milk from my carton and stare at the ringleader with no visible reaction either way.
His brows lift and momentary curiosity swims in his gaze. Then his smirk spreads and he glances over his left and right shoulders at the others. I’m reminded of my time at Westoria Prep, dealing with Brett Gannon and his pack of sheep followers. These guys guffaw in much the same manner, egging on their master.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I’m not interested in passing their test or joining their clique. They mean so little, I can’t muster up the energy to even want to be enemies.
They mean nothing.
“I said, what’s your name? I’m talking to you,” snaps the ringleader. He leans halfway over the table and smacks my milk carton out of my hand. It rolls onto the floor, spilling the last of its contents. The ringleader sits back down. “Oops.”
More snickers from the others fill the air. Who knew grown ass men could have the senses of humor of ten year olds?
But he’s still not getting a rise out of me. Violence is something I enjoy, often considering it a hobby of mine in the lifestyle I lead, but I’m not here to get into fights. I’m not here to exacerbate my legal troubles.
I’m here to spend the next few weeks to months keeping my nose clean.
“Maybe next time, you’ll have some manners,” the ringleader goes on. “When I talk to you, you answer. I asked for your name.”
I grab my empty food tray and rise off the bench.
The act of refusing to answer becomes an answer in itself.
By now, everybody in the chow hall watches on. Everybody’s gone silent. If any guards are around, they don’t reveal themselves. Maybe they want a chance to watch this confrontational scene before breaking it up.
I move to leave. One of the ringleader’s lackeys, a gangly motherfucker with a tattooed neck and sunken eyes, steps in my way and does what his master did. Monkey see monkey do—he slaps the food tray out of my grasp and sends it tumbling to the ground.
The jackasses explode into laughter. They laugh like they’re a second away from pissing their pants.
My fingers curl at my sides and blood pounds in my ears, drowning out the dumb guffaws. Familiar urges kindle to life and burn up my insides. As it turns out, my temper’s on a precariously thin leash after all.
I glare into the ugly face of the gangly asshole who just knocked my tray down, but I speak to the ringleader.
“Tell your followers to move out of my way.”
I can feel his sneer deepen even without looking at him. “Rules are rules. Tell me your name first.”