Dangerous Beginnings (The Beginnings Duet #1)

Born a Sinner?

Chapter 1

Born a Sinner?

To Ton – Without you, there would be no beginning.

Unknown

With my wrists shackled to the cold metal table, I sit in silence, my thoughts spiraling into the darkness.

Thinking became my addiction years ago when I lost everyone to share my thoughts with. The fewer words I spoke, the sharper my mind became, and with that sharpness came a dangerous edge. Years ago, when I killed for the first time with my bare hands. Ever since that day the fire within me has been burning me up from inside out. I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind. I wasn’t born in this world to bring sunshine, I was born to make this world crumble under your feet, to eliminate light and consume it in darkness.

November 6 th , 1 a.m.

I have been sitting here for over an hour and cuffed to a table, hands and feet. These hands have shed so much blood—the blood of the innocent, the blood of the guilty. Power is something I thrive on; you feel what power is when you hold someone else’s life in your own bare hands.

The only thing I see are the cameras and guards keeping a close eye on me. I can feel their eyes on me through the two-way mirror. Screams find their way through the hallway. This place is as dark as night, full of the worst people in the country. Name it and you can find it here; killers, rapists, human traffickers and so many more. I am supposed to be brought to the hospital department, but I don’t recall seeing any appearance of a rush. Blood stains my clothes like it stains my hands. I lead, I order, and I decide. They don’t know who I am, or what I represent. I lead, I command. I am the architect of darkness.

November 6 th , 1:10 a.m.

Locked in a cell.

Isabella

November 6 th , 1 a.m.

I get up from under the warm sheets of my bed. It’s a gloomy midnight in New York City, cold and rainy. Shivers appear on my skin as soon as my feet touch the cold tiles of my bathroom floor.

I work every single moment that I can. It’s exhausting, but I need the money. I live alone, and with my parents also struggling to get by, asking them for help is not exactly an option. That along with the fact that I do not have a good relationship with them. My landlord increased the rent last week. I was already barely able to afford it before. I always knew he was a prick anyway.

I take a hot shower and comb my hair. I grab my comfiest clothes and apply a little mascara. I love my job; I love being able to help and take care of people. I have been working as a nurse for over three years now. When I turned 21, I got my first job at a local clinic near my hometown. Now three years later, I need a new one. After the clinic shut down due to the economic crisis I got transferred. The place where I got transferred to is where I still work, the healthcare department of a maximum-security prison. I’ve been working here for about a month now, maybe even less. It’s completely different from where I used to work, but I’m still adapting to the new environment. I’m not sure yet if I am going to keep working here though, I just really need the money.

I make a quick breakfast and a cup of coffee before heading out of the door at 2 a.m. Yes, 2 a.m. It’s pitch black outside as I get into my old Toyota car. I turn on the radio and connect my Bluetooth. It’s a 20-minute drive, and I try to stay awake with some pumping music. In the car I drink another cup of coffee, as my sleep schedule has not been the best with these midnight shifts. And with not the best…I mean that I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.

There’s no sign of life, no houses, no lights—just dense trees, open fields, and an occasional rustle of wind. The prison itself sits in the middle of nowhere, secluded and surrounded by miles of barren land.

After a solid 20-minute drive I arrive at the security gates. Tall, wrought iron bars rise from the ground, gleaming under the soft glow of perimeter lights. It’s a fortress of steel and iron. Razor wire coils along the top of the fence, glinting in the moonlight. Surveillance cameras at every corner, their lenses sweeping every inch of the perimeter. Beyond the gates, a maze of high walls stretches out before me. Slowly, the weight of the place settles over me.

I get checked by the many guards that guard the prison and its facilities. After the ID check, I get to my parking spot and park my car between the lines. As soon as I step outside, I’m greeted by my colleague, Lea. Her short, chestnut-brown hair is neatly tucked behind her ears. Her features are soft, kind. Red stains her cheeks from the cold. Lea has been showing me how things work around here and has been my helping hand through my entire first weeks. We don’t differ much in age; she’s just turned 25. We’ve become pretty good friends over the past few weeks. As she approaches me, she waves her hand to greet me.

“Good morning sunshine!” she shouts.

“What makes you so happy at this time, crazy woman?” I ask her, laughing.

While walking across the parking lot, she tells me that she finally secured her new apartment. I look at her and squeak in excitement.

“Really?! That’s amazing, I’m so happy for you. I really should come and help you with decorating the place next week!” I tell her, and she nods happily as she leads us into the front building of the prison.

As we walk inside, we get checked for a second time by guards, and this time they check our bags too. Once we are completely searched, they let us go through the steel doors. We walk towards the open space, which is also used for lunch breaks and presentations. Nick gives everyone the updates of every single day and tells everyone their schedule for the day. Nick is what you would call the average middle-aged man. His silver-streaked hair and the faint lines of a life well-lived are a testament to his years. Incipient smile lines and the deepening wrinkles around his eyes hint at a man who’s seen and done much yet remains grounded in the mundane routines of daily life. Lea and I take a seat as Nick starts talking.

“Welcome everyone, please be seated.”

After 15 minutes, Nick finishes and walks over to us, dismissing Lea.

“You good Nick?” I ask as I see his distressed gaze lingering over me.

“I need your full attention for this conversation we are about to have,” he tells me. I stare at him while my eyebrows furrow ever so slightly.

I walk towards the front of the room, following Nick’s movement.

“Take a seat and listen carefully.” I sit down across from him as tension fills the room. Nick grabs a report and places it in front of me on the table.

“Tonight, the NYPD arrested a man. He was arrested while driving like a maniac, under the influence of drugs and alcohol. We also discovered that he’d been in some sort of fight. So far, we only know that he is a dangerous and crazy inmate. But that is not the lingering issue here.”

Nick’s distressed gaze meets mine as he continues, the wrinkles in his face intensifying.

“They ran a background check on him, but they can’t seem to find any information about him. He simply does not exist in these files.”

I open the file in front of me.

“That’s strange, shouldn’t they always be able to run a background check on anyone?” I ask Nick while closing the empty file.

“Yes, that was what we thought too. The fact that they are not able to find out any information on this man is worrying. They’re keeping him in cell five and are soon to take him to the hospital department. We’ve left him in his cell for a few hours to sleep off the shit that he’d taken when they arrested him. The police have taken his prints, pictures, and statements. His statement was short since he didn’t speak a word. We honestly do not even know what languages he speaks. Tonight, we’re short on staff, so this man is your responsibility.”

I now share the distressed look Nick has on his face; it’s only my fourth week here…how can I handle this responsibility?

“He’s mildly injured - hands and arms - covered in a few cuts. They need to be cleaned up. As for the rest, he might have a broken rib. You should check that out, give him painkillers, and stitch him up. You can do this Isabella, if I had anyone else up for it, I would switch you up. But I can’t because we are too understaffed.” I sigh while scratching my forehead. Great start to the night, I think. But as I look around the empty room and at Nick’s stressed expression, I finally reply:

“It’s alright Nick, I got it.”

I’m about to grab my belongings and go to the changing rooms when Nick stops me.

“Isabel, there are a few communication restrictions. You need to follow them, all of them .”

I frown as I turn around to face him again.

“You are not allowed to uncuff him in any way, even if it means that you are not fully able to stitch his cuts. Also, stick to small talk or no talk at all.”

Unknown

Time is ticking, the clock ticks extra slow in hell. Almost 2.30 AM. The once-fresh blood on my hands has dried up by now. My wounds are still open, but the blood surrounding them has become a dry mess. I look down at my hands, and notice how red they are, not only from the blood. The handcuffs are so tight that they’re close to stopping any blood circulation towards my fingers.

My once-white shirt is torn open. It is fucking freezing inside this cell. I can already feel the pain inside my head, vodka . I have been locked up and shackled like an animal for nearly two hours. I’m immobilized, and soon about to go crazy. Do they believe that cuffs will prevent me from breaking loose? As a man of 6’5 with deadly skills they should know better, but they don’t. They do not because they don’t know who I am.

The door finally opens as two guards step in. They approach me while taking out a key to uncuff my feet, just for them to be cuffed together again but with a longer chain. The men jerk me up and push me out of the cell door towards another steel door. We move through four steel doors and one wooden door. Both men, one on each side of me, have a firm grip on my upper arms. As soon as we move through the wooden door I am met with the smell of disinfectants and an ice-cold woosh of air. They push me towards a chair in front of many bandages and such equipment. Before they turn around to leave one of them speaks up:

“Don’t you dare try anything, there are cameras and guards positioned on every corner.”

My gaze meets his as I just stare into his eyes, cold and detached. I don’t bother saying anything. He gives me a dismissive look before leaving through the same door we entered.

The steady beeping of monitors fills the room and the scent of antiseptic hangs in the air. Shoes softly squeaking against the polished floor. Behind the curtain, the sterile white walls and the soft hum of medical equipment leave no doubt that I am in the hospital department of the prison. As my eyes roam around the room I scan multiple cameras, two guards outside the door, an emergency button, one bed, and two chairs. There is no one else in the room, designed for only one prisoner. It’s not much of an upgrade from the cell I was stuck in before. Waiting is not something I am used to, and with every second passing I feel my impatience growing.

Isabella

As soon as I head out of the door, I walk through the hallway towards the changing room. I open my locker and put my bag inside, grabbing the scrubs and changing into them. Hurrying, I close the locker as soon as I’m changed and walk out the door. I make my way towards the few steel doors that you must pass to get to the hospital department. At every door a guard greets me, checking my ID before opening the door. After a few minutes, I get to the final door. The guard checks my ID for the final time before unlocking the door. Honestly, I don’t think I will ever get used to this process. After being checked for what feels like a hundred times, I can finally access the hospital floor. It’s awfully quiet, just three boxes have their lights on. I make my way over and almost feel like returning my morning coffee straight back into the empty cup I am holding.

Standing in front of the door I debate if I should just find a new job, a job that is less stomach cramping. When I finally decide to open the door, I am met with a set of bright green eyes. Our eyes lock as I hear the door falling into the keylock behind me. The eerie feeling I had returns and spreads its way through my blood like poison. And no, I do not want to make my first impression by puking my coffee in this man’s face.

I have no idea for how long we held this eye contact, but with every second, I felt my blood forming into ice. His presence is dark, ominous even, and his gaze is ice cold. This is not a boy, this is a man, and by the looks of it, he is way older than me. I lose track of time as these bright green eyes stare right into my soul.

Maybe it has been ten seconds, maybe it has even been a minute before I finally speak.

“Good morning! Well—almost morning. I’m your nurse.”

My words come out like a mouse, and once again I manage to humiliate myself. His eyes never leave mine as I speak, no answer in return except for his longing stare that freezes me to the bone. I feel the air grow tighter in the room and decide to try and make it a little lighter but stick to the small talk.

“How are you feeling?”

Still no response. He’s clearly not feeling well, nobody would in his situation. I mentally slap myself in the face as I continue to try and fail to start a conversation. As soon as I realize that he isn’t going to answer any of my questions I decide to do my job as fast as I can and get the hell out of here. Nick warned me for a reason, sticking to small talk.

I take a few steps forward and observe the man’s arms, legs, and other places where there are visible cuts. I notice that the blood has dried up and conclude that the cuts are not fresh anymore. They have been making him wait to get help. His hands are blood red. He has been cuffed. But not like a normal inmate. His wrists are cuffed, and so are his ankles. His arms are covered in tattoos, one of them being a small star. The rest is written in a foreign language I can’t understand, though I assume it might be Russian from the harsh, angular script. The meaning behind them is lost on me, but they seem to tell a story, one inked into his skin like a secret I am not meant to know.

I grab the disinfectant and sit in front of him. As he stares at my hands, his eyes move where my hands go.

“This might sting a little bit,” I state as I press the cotton ball with the disinfectant on the cuts located on his arms. After stitching the cuts, I stand and take one last look to make sure the stitches are secure, all while the heavy, wordless tension continues to grow between us. His presence dominates the space, filling it with a dangerous energy I can’t quite place.

I finish cleaning his cuts and take off my gloves, as I stand at the sink, I can feel his eyes burning into me. The sensation is suffocating somehow, like a predator stalking its prey. I walk towards the door to address the guards that my job is done, but before they open the door I am met with a deep voice:

“ Spasibo, solnyshko.”

His voice feels like an ice-cold breeze running through my blood. I don’t know what the words mean, but their weight, the way they roll off his tongue, sends a shiver down my spine. Slowly, I turn around to meet his gaze one more time. His sharp features stare back at me. His eyes bore into mine, and in that moment, it’s as though he’s memorizing me—storing away every detail of my face, my fear .

As the guards escort him out of the room I release a breath which I don’t even realize I’m holding. His words ring through my ears. Little did I know that with these 15 minutes, I got myself a ticket into a cat-and-mouse game with a very dangerous man.

This is just the beginning, a dangerous beginning .