Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
Ginni
Today is the day. I can feel it in my bones, in the way the morning light filters through the barred windows of my cell, in the particular quality of anticipation that fills the air like the promise of rain.
Carlo is coming for me today.
Yesterday I thought the same thing, of course.
And the day before that. But today feels different.
Today feels inevitable, like everything that’s happened up to this point has been leading to this moment when my handsome husband finally realizes that stabbing that policeman was actually a love letter written in the most dramatic language I could manage.
A sign that I understand he needed just a little more help to embrace our beautiful love.
One final incentive to enable him to see clearly.
He’s probably been making plans ever since he heard the news.
Pulling strings, calling in favors, assembling the kind of resources that only someone like Carlo Benedetti can command.
I can picture him now, pacing his elegant living room in one of those perfectly tailored suits I bought for him, his dark eyes blazing with determination as he orchestrates my rescue.
My cellmate thinks I’m delusional, but he doesn’t understand.
Probably because he spends most of his time taking an alarming amount of drugs.
Even when he is coherent, he doesn’t know what it’s like to be loved by someone who commands respect and fear in equal measure, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to move heaven and earth for the person he cares about.
And Carlo does care about me. He has to.
Why else would he have left me that beautiful note promising to come back?
Why else would he have told me he loved me if it wasn’t absolutely true?
My initial panic at finding the letter was understandable, but I’ve long since come to my senses.
My wonderful Carlo would never lie to me.
Sighing happily, I leave my cellmate in his drugged haze, and make my way down to lunch.
The lunch hall is a symphony of clattering trays and crude conversation, the kind of place where civilized behavior comes to die.
I navigate through the line with careful precision, selecting items that won’t completely offend my palate while trying not to think about how different this is from the elegant meals Carlo and I shared in our beautiful basement sanctuary.
The mashed potatoes look like wallpaper paste. The meat is an indeterminate brown that could be beef or shoe leather. But it’s temporary. All of this is temporary, because any moment now Carlo is going to burst through those doors like an avenging angel and sweep me away from this terrible place.
I find a seat at one of the long metal tables, positioning myself where I can see the entrance clearly. When he arrives, I want to be the first thing he sees. I want him to know that I’ve been waiting for him, that I never doubted for a moment that he would come.
I’ve washed and styled my hair as best I can. Salvaged this hideous uniform by rolling parts up and leaving poppers undone. It’s imperative that I look my best for my love.
“Well, well, what have we here?”
The voice is gravelly and unpleasant, belonging to a man with prison tattoos covering his arms and the kind of smile that suggests violence is never far from his thoughts. He slides onto the bench across from me, flanked by two equally unsavory companions.
I’ve seen this trio before. Usually they have a younger man with them. A blond-haired youth who never looks up.
I heard he was taken to the infirmary this morning and that it doesn’t look good. I don’t know why his friends are talking to me instead of worrying about him. They should be busy making Get Well Soon cards.
“Looks like we got ourselves a new pretty boy,” one of them leers, his gaze traveling over my face with obvious intent. “Bit young to be in here with the big boys, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
I straighten my spine and fix them with the kind of cool stare that should send them scurrying for cover. These creatures clearly don’t understand who they’re dealing with.
“I’m married,” I inform them with dignity. “Happily married.”
The response is immediate and devastating. All three men burst into laughter, the sound harsh and mocking in a way that makes something cold settle in my stomach.
“Married!” the first man wheezes. “Oh, that’s rich. To who, your cellmate?”
“My husband,” I say firmly, though their laughter is making my chest tight with an unfamiliar sensation. Uncertainty. Fear. “He’ll be collecting me shortly.”
“Will he now?” The man leans forward, his breath reeking of tobacco and decay.
“And what makes you think your husband gives a shit about you anymore? Most wives drop their men the minute they get sent down. This so-called husband of yours has probably already found himself something even younger and tighter.”
The crude words hit me like physical blows, but I refuse to let them see how much they affect me. Carlo isn’t like that. Carlo loves me. He promised to come back for me, and he’s a man of his word.
“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice perhaps a bit higher than I intended. “My husband is... he’s important. Powerful. He won’t leave me here.”
“Sure he won’t, princess.” He grins, displaying an alarming lack of teeth. “But while we’re waiting for Prince Charming to show up, why don’t you and I get better acquainted?”
His companions snicker appreciatively, one of them making a vulgar gesture that suggests exactly what kind of ‘acquaintance’ they have in mind.
Other prisoners are starting to gather around our table, drawn by the promise of a show.
Some look excited, others merely interested, but none of them look like they’re planning to intervene on my behalf.
The crowd is pressing closer now, the smell of unwashed bodies and stale cigarettes and something darker, more predatory. Their voices getting louder and more aggressive. Comments about my appearance, my perceived inexperience, what they plan to do once they get me alone.
The tattooed man’s hand suddenly lands on my thigh under the table, thick fingers squeezing with unmistakable intent
The touch sends revulsion through me so pure and violent that I actually gag. I shove his hand away with both of mine.
“Don’t touch me,” I gasp. “Don’t you dare touch me! My husband is Carlo Benedetti!”
I expect the name to have the same effect it would have in civilized company. I expect them to go pale, to stammer apologies, to back away in fear and recognition.
Instead, they laugh even harder.
“Who the fuck is that?” the second man asks between guffaws. “Sounds like some pasta-eating nobody.”
“Never heard of him,” another voice calls from the growing crowd. “Must not be very important if he lets his boytoy get locked up with the rest of us animals.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. They don’t know. They don’t recognize Carlo’s name. They don’t understand that they’re sitting across from the wife of one of the most feared and respected men in London.
For the first time since I’ve been here, genuine terror begins to creep through my carefully maintained composure. These aren’t just crude criminals. They’re... common. Petty thieves and small-time dealers, so far removed from Carlo’s world that his name means absolutely nothing to them.
Which means his protection doesn’t extend here. Which means I’m not safe.
“Carlo Benedetti,” I repeat desperately, as if saying his name louder will somehow make them understand. “He owns the best club in London. He’s connected. Important. If you touch me, he’ll...”
“He’ll what?” A large, sweaty man grins, showing teeth stained brown with neglect. “Send us a strongly worded letter?”
The tattooed man’s hand is back on my thigh, gripping harder this time, fingers digging into my flesh through the rough fabric of my prison uniform. The other men are laughing, making crude suggestions about what they’d like to do to Carlo Benedetti’s pretty little boy-wife.
“I bet he’s never been properly broken in,” one of them speculates loudly. “Rich little gay-boy like that, probably all silk and perfume and no experience with taking it rough.”
“We’ll fix that,” another promises with obvious relish. “Teach him what it means to be a real man’s property.”
My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard I can barely breathe. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. This isn’t what I envisioned. Carlo is supposed to arrive before anyone can touch me, before anyone can treat me like some common criminal instead of the cherished wife of a powerful man.
But he’s not here. And these animals don’t care who I’m married to because they’ve never heard of my husband.
The crowd is getting bigger now, more aggressive. Men pressing closer, hands reaching out to touch my hair, my face, my body. Comments getting cruder and more explicit about what they plan to do once they get me alone.
“Get your hands off me,” I hiss, trying to pull away, but the tattooed man’s grip only tightens.
“Or what, princess? You’ll call your imaginary husband? Scream for guards who don’t give a shit what happens to pretty boys who think they’re too good for this place?”
The mockery in his voice, the casual disregard for my dignity, the complete dismissal of everything I am and everything Carlo means to me, sends something snapping inside my chest.
I grab my fork with my free hand and drive it deep into the flesh of his wrist.
The man screams, jerking his hand back as blood wells around the metal tines. “You fucking psycho!”
But I’m already moving, already on my feet, the fork still clutched in my hand like a weapon. Because if they don’t respect Carlo’s name, if his protection doesn’t extend to this place, then I have to protect myself.
“I told you not to touch me,” I snarl, and I barely recognize my own voice. This is something primal and desperate and absolutely murderous.
The wounded man lunges for me, his companions right behind him. Other prisoners are shouting, some backing away, others moving closer like sharks drawn to blood. Guards are blowing whistles somewhere in the distance, but they’re too far away, too late.
The fork isn’t much of a weapon, but it’s all I have. I slash out wildly, catching someone across the face, feeling warm blood splash across my hand. Someone grabs my hair, yanking my head back, and I bite down hard on the nearest piece of flesh I can find.
More screaming. More blood. Hands grabbing at me from all directions, trying to pin me down, promising to hurt me in ways I don’t want to think about.
This is hell. This is what happens when you’re abandoned by everyone who’s supposed to love you, when even your husband’s name can’t protect you from the wolves.
A fist connects with my ribs, driving the air from my lungs. Another catches me in the face, splitting my lip and filling my mouth with the metallic taste of blood. But I keep fighting, keep slashing with my makeshift weapon, because if I stop they’ll tear me apart.
“Carlo!” I scream his name even though he’s not here, even though he can’t hear me, even though he might never come for me at all. “Carlo!”
But Carlo doesn’t answer. Nobody answers except the brutal hands and cruel laughter and the terrible realization that I’m completely, utterly alone.
The guards finally reach us, batons swinging, tear gas filling the air, but it’s too late.
The damage is done. My beautiful fantasy about being rescued by my powerful husband lies in pieces around me, mixed with blood and broken teeth and the complete destruction of everything I believed about my place in the world.
As they drag me away in restraints, my face already swelling from the blows, I catch sight of my reflection in the metal surface of a tray that’s been knocked to the floor.
I look exactly like what I am. Not the cherished wife of Carlo Benedetti. Not someone important and protected and loved.
Just another broken prisoner who got what was coming to him.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a terrible voice whispers that maybe Marco was right all along.
Maybe prison is exactly where I belong.