Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Bradley swallowed, anger glowing in his muddy eyes. “One year you’ve been in here, Killian. You’ve got your whole life in front of you. I wouldn’t be so keen to make such firm enemies if I were you.”
I cocked my head, grabbing a plastic knife and fork from the container. “Oh, really? So I should’ve let you rape me?” I sighed dramatically. “Don’t see your logic, but I’m happy to teach you another lesson.”
Fisting my cutlery and shitty lunch, I glowered. “See ya round, Bradley.”
I stalked away before he could mutter another word. My eyes scanned the dismal excuse of a cafeteria with uncomfortable bolted stools and metal tables. Everything was metal and cream or bolts and bars. It wasn’t fucking inspiring—shit, it was downright “slice your jugular and just give the fuck up right now” décor.
Life.
I have life in this godforsaken place.
Not for the first time and definitely not for the last, my hands curled, almost cracking the brittle plastic of the tray.
So fucking unfair.
So fucking painful.
She’s dead.
Don’t think about it.
My mind turned to the dark cesspit of memories. Hatred that never failed to choke me with blackness cloaked over my shoulders.
The betrayal. The dishonor. The manipulation.
I wanted to slam my tray to the floor and let loose the rage inside.
The day I’d walked in here, I ceased to be human and lived for only one thing.
One throbbing, vicious thing.
Vengeance.
Revenge.
Every fucking word that meant getting my own back.
That was me. I ate it. I breathed it. I fucking made love to it while I jerked off in my cell. It was the only love permitted in my soul—the only substance that kept me rising from my awful cot and facing yet another day in purgatory.
The only way I could survive every day knowing Cleo was no longer in it.
“Killian. He wants to see you.” A balding man in his late fifties appeared in my line of sight, barricading me from sitting at one of the identical depressing benches.
I gritted my teeth. “Get out of my way.”
Prisoner #FS788791shook his head, showing the scribbling prison tats decorating his neck. The embroidered number on his orange jumpsuit couldn’t be more demeaning. We might as well be livestock ready for the slaughter.
I refuse to fucking die in here.
The oath resonated in my heart for the millionth time since the seven a.m. wake-up bell. I won’t. I refused to die without their blood on my hands and justice being served.
“I suggest you come with me. You get one shot. He wants to see you. Don’t fuck this up.” He leaned forward, smelling of grease and armpit stench. “One chance, brother. You really going to throw that away?”
My heart thudded. “He doesn’t have any power. Unless he can get me out of here before I’m a wrinkly old bastard who has to piss twenty times a night, then I’m not going anywhere near him.”
I’d heard the tales. The shankings. The mysterious poisonings. He wasn’t someone I wanted to piss off or get chummy with.
That was how enemies started. By picking sides.
I was my own fucking side.
Vengeance.
The prisoner smiled. “You have to trust someone.”
“No, I don’t.”
Never again. I would never be that weak.
“You need a friend in here. Life imprisonment is a long time.”
I rolled my eyes. “No shit, it’s a long time. Lucky for me, I prefer my own company.” I tried to push past, but his bony hand clutched my forearm.
“One meeting. One chance. Don’t fuck it up and he might have the power to do what you need.”
Our eyes locked and I wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp—the anger, hurt, and betrayal sliced my veins with every pump of my heart. I wasn’t a prisoner of this penitentiary, I was a prisoner of what they’d done to me.
One chance.
If I did this, maybe, just maybe, I might get what I needed. To make them suffer.
I tore my arm from his grip. “Fine.” Throwing my tray and congealed mac and cheese on the closest table, I snarled, “He gets three minutes. He tries anything, and I’m not the one who pays. Got it?”
For an eighteen-, about to turn nineteen-year-old, I was grateful I’d filled out, grown to over six foot three, and my long hair came across as slightly crazy, completely delinquent. My voice was deep—my balls had dropped years ago, and I’d been raised to use my fists first and mind later.
Too bad for my father, who taught me—he never understood my brain was the biggest, baddest part of me. Another reason why people in here avoided me. No one liked a genius murderer with a high IQ.
Double threat. Triple danger.
Prisoner #FS788791 nodded. “Deal. One meeting. Then it’s up to you.”
Him.
The awe-inspiring, nail-biting majesty himself.
Wallstreet to his fellow inmates, even to the guards. No one used his real name. No one dared disrespect him that way—even local politicians called him Wallstreet out of respect. Respect for what he’d created, even if it wasn’t exactly legal.