Prologue #2
Enzo
I smirked as I stuffed the letter in the addressed envelope, copying it from Gerald's business card he gave me when he first became my lawyer. I placed it in the outgoing mailbox and then returned to my cell.
"I'm gonna hit the shower," I warned Vitali as I grabbed my shampoo, soap, towel, and another uniform.
"Don't have to tell me twice," Vitali laughed as he stood, stretched, and waltzed out of our cell.
I pulled the shower curtain open, stepped inside, then closed it. I draped my towel over the shower rod along with my clean clothes and placed the soap and shampoo by the shower knob.
I undressed, dropping the clothes just outside of the shower to wash later. I turned on the water, adjusting the spray until it was hot enough to stand, and I stepped into the spray .
Hot water was rare around here, and with how many inmates we were and how often they took a shower, I knew I had to be quick.
But I couldn't get Amara out of my head.
That quivering, pouty lip, those big, hopeful eyes, that thick head of hair, the curves on her petite form. She took over my thoughts, and my cock grew heavy with need.
I grunted, unable to resist, as I ran a soapy hand along my cock. It twitched, hard and swollen, and I gripped the base, giving one long stroke.
I tilted my head back, wetting my hair as I imagined Amara in here with me. I pictured how I'd peel her clothes off and soap up those perfect curves. I'd watch in fascination as the soap reflected light off the bubbles on her skin and how they'd slide down her body in the water.
I stroked my cock, the pressure building faster than I could contain it. I hadn't touched myself in a while, sick of the same faces in the magazines some men snuck in here.
But now I had all the inspiration in the world.
Imagining her perky tits pressed against my chest, I bit back a groan. Her skin would feel so soft against mine; I just knew it.
Was she a freak in the bedroom? Did she like to be dominated, or did she like to take charge? I smirked as I pictured us both wrestling, fighting for control, until I finally subdued her. I'd lick her pussy until she saw stars, her thighs like earmuffs against my face.
I bet she tasted as delicious as she looked. There was no way a woman like her didn't taste sweet, heady, and addictive.
I could see it now; her smooth hands wrapping around my waist, her cunt already sopping wet for me, pink and swollen, her body flushed and ready.
How would I take her first? Maybe I'd fist her hair and drag her to her knees and make her taste my cock. If she looked up at me with those big doe eyes, I wouldn't last long.
Maybe I'd pin her against the wall, rub her greedy clit, and impale her with my cock. She'd feel so tight and perfect around me, milking me like she needed me as much as I needed her.
She'd moan my name, her cries short and desperate, and she'd come all over me, bathing me in her essence. She'd claw at my skin, marking me as hers, biting on my shoulder like an unrestrained animal as she lost herself to me.
Just as I would drown in her.
I groaned as the base of my spine tingled, and pleasure speared through me as I climaxed, bracing an arm against the wall at the intensity of it. My cock jerked, throbbing as I spurted in my hand, the liquid hot and thick.
I sighed, chuckling as I took the soap, shuddering as the water began to turn cold.
I got clean just to get dirty again, I mused to myself.
Amara
I was surprised to find Mr. Ricci's letter soon after I last saw him. Most inmates I saw didn't stay true to their word, but it seemed this one was different.
Mark was out drinking with his friends, so I tore the envelope open as I walked up the stairs, taking off my blazer and my hair tie. My feet ached from walking around in heels all day, and I told myself I'd wear flats if this continued.
I sat on my bed, reading over the worksheet he completed. It often took months before I got the kind of raw honesty Lorenzo offered on paper. It was like he had to be the tough guy in person, but when he wrote, he bared his soul.
I read his letter, and my heart pounded at the sincerity of his words .
It's just a case, I told myself. But his words were too real and too raw. It took me off guard. He wasn't like any inmate I'd ever met.
Or like any man I'd ever met.
I felt a pull—deep, dangerous, and unknown. I couldn't explain it, and it was nothing like I'd felt with my husband. It was different somehow.
Part of me warned me not to write back and that this was a dangerous game, some elaborate scheme this prisoner was making.
But the hope for his redemption was too strong. He had too much potential, and I couldn't be the reason he became another life wasted behind bars.
So, I gravitated toward paper and penned a response.
Dear Lorenzo,
I read your letter. Twice. I wasn't sure how to respond at first. I could tell you that self-help isn't about sitting in a circle and crying about the past, but I think you already know that. You wouldn't have filled out the worksheet if you didn't think, even for a second, that change was possible. That maybe—just maybe—you're more than the things you've done. And I believe that, Lorenzo. I believe you are more.
You said regret is just an anchor men like you drag behind them. Maybe you're right. But what if regret isn't supposed to weigh you down? What if it's meant to remind you of what you can still do differently?
You've lived your life believing that violence is the only way to get justice, that the system is broken, and that no one is looking out for people like you. But if two wrongs made a right, wouldn't the world be a much darker place? Wouldn't it mean there's no point in trying to fix anything at all?
I know the justice system isn't perfect. But it exists because revenge is just pain, looking for somewhere else to land. And you—whether you see it or not—are carrying too much of it. You don't have to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders, Lorenzo. I applaud you for opening up to me. I know it wasn't easy. It's never easy to look at yourself and wonder if you could have been someone different.
But you can still choose what kind of man you want to be now. And whether you believe it or not, I think that choice is still yours. I'm here. I'll keep writing.
Sincerely,
Amara Branson
I read over his letter again, touched by how personal it was. Hesitation crept in, alarm bells warning me about how dangerous killers were. I could be starting something that I couldn't walk away from.
But I had to take the risk. I'd be damned if another person got locked up forever when I could've saved him.
I addressed the envelope and decided to bring it straight to the mailbox on the corner of my street. I changed my heels for sneakers and walked quickly as rain began pouring from the clouds.
Mark's car was in the driveway. My heart sank. Would he be worried about me and wonder where I went?
I opened the door, hurrying inside as I wiped the raindrops from my bare arms. I scowled as I realized my blouse was soaked.
"Where have you been?" Mark demanded, sitting at the kitchen table. "How long were you out?"
"I just popped out for a few minutes to mail a letter for work," I panted, trying to catch my breath from the quick jog I took. "I didn't think you'd be home so soon."
His expression was neutral, watching and waiting. Confused, I removed my sneakers and stepped closer. His eyes trailed over my body, probably noticing that I was still in my work clothes .
I looked at the table in front of him, and I froze. He fisted Enzo's letter, and then I noticed the glint of anger in his eyes.
Seeing that I noticed the letter, he sneered, lifting the letter as he read it out loud. "Dear Amara," he started mockingly.
I winced as he read the entirety of it, heat burning my cheeks.
"Look at how this degenerate clings to you," he scoffed. "You really think a murderer can change? That he needs you?"
My brows furrowed. "You knew when you married me that I would be a lawyer. I have to deal with all kinds of people, Mark. That's the job."
"I didn't know you'd work with fucking killers, Amara," he snapped. "I bet he writes all his lawyer's interns love letters. You're not special."
"It's not a love letter," I placated. "If I can help rehabilitate offenders—"
"But you're not a fucking social worker or psychologist, are you, Amara?" he laughed. "You're just his lawyer's intern. You're there to learn from your boss, not cure his clients."
I cringed. I didn't know what to say to that. Maybe he was right, but I couldn't just sit back and let people spiral into a life behind bars when I knew I could do something about it.
Mark lifted a lighter, pressing the flame against the letter as it lit up, burning before my eyes.
"What the fuck, Mark?" I exclaimed. "That was so unnecessary!"
He stood, dropping the letter in the sink as he rushed me. I backed away until I hit a wall, and he grabbed my wrist, his hold bruising.
"You belong to me, Amara. Did you forget that?" he yelled, his breath reeking of alcohol.
I shook my head.
"You're not writing him back. End of discussion," Mark shouted, throwing my wrist from his grip as he backed away. He ran a hand through his hair, laughing as he muttered insults before he walked off.
I stood frozen on the spot for a few moments, unsure how to react. Ever since Mark and I got married, he started showing his violent side more and more. I wasn't sure how much more of this I could take.
"Maybe you being a lawyer wasn't such a good idea," he called from the living room. "A woman having a job is emasculating, anyway. Let me provide like I was meant to."
No way, I thought. I worked too hard on my degree to give up now. But I stayed silent, instead dashing for the stairs. I darted into the bedroom, locking myself in the bathroom before I started the shower.
Maybe now he would leave me alone.
By the time I went to bed, Mark was already fast asleep, snoring softly.
I sat awake as the hours ticked by, staring at a blank piece of paper on my nightstand.
I wanted to write back so badly. I knew he would keep sending those worksheets, and I wanted to say something before Mark forbade me from writing again.
I was trapped. I still had to see Lorenzo for work, but I had to keep that spark of light alive in him.
Pushing the piece of paper away, I settled under the sheets. I'd write him from work, I decided. Mark couldn't track those letters or keep me from writing them in the office.
As long as Lorenzo kept writing to me, I promised myself that I would write back.
Because I wasn't letting him slip through my fingers when I could save him.
Days bled into nights, and I found it impossible to concentrate on my other cases. Time seemed meaningless until I would see Lorenzo again. The other inmates Gerald represented were remorseless criminals, but there was something about Lorenzo. I felt like I could really make a difference with him.
The next worksheet arrived, as did his letter.
Dear Amara,
It took longer than I'd like to finish this worksheet. I don't like dwelling on the past or rehashing unpleasant memories. I don't see a point to it, really, but I filled them out anyway.
Why am I the way I am? There are too many answers to that question, so I'll summarize; I am what life has made me. Everything that happened to me has led me to this moment.
You ask if I have regrets. My only regret is that I didn't kill my victims sooner before they could hurt others. Maybe then things would be different because there would be much less pain in the world.
But unless someone invented a time machine, regrets serve no purpose but to make the one with them miserable. So, I refuse to dwell on these thoughts.
You say it's the justice system's job to dispose of these low-lives. I can admit that' s true. However, I can also tell you that they do a shit job of it. Thousands of criminals walk free all the time, and the judicial system fails the victims. What to do then? Just sit and wait until they hurt the next child?
I don't think any sane man could do that. The system is what needs to change because then men like me wouldn't need to keep the balance between good and evil in this world.
I know that without those miscreants, the world is a brighter place. Tell me that I'm wrong, and you'll be admitting the suffering of children is better than the death of their abusers.
Write back.
-Enzo
I sighed as I smoothed out the wrinkled paper as if he'd written the letter and then tossed it in the trash before he decided to mail it.
I was glad that he did. The insight into his mind was fascinating. His thought process had a certain morality and logic to it. I could work with this.
After I finished looking over the worksheet, I began writing a letter of my own.
Dear Lorenzo,
Thank you for completing this worksheet. I know it can't always be easy to examine yourself like that or to revisit unpleasant memories. I promise that good will come from this and that this discomfort is only temporary.
I can understand where you're coming form. The justice system does fail sometimes, and criminals walk the streets free every day when they shouldn't. Some innocent people get thrown in prison as well. It isn't perfect, but it's what we have, and we must respect it.
When you kill, you give them a part of your life in return. I say this because, as a result, you have to serve time, often a life sentence, behind bars. You become a sacrificial lamb, taking on several lifetimes of confinement when, instead, you should be living your life.
If you want reform, demand it. Protest, write to your senators and congressmen, and set up informative events. Vote for people who believe the same things you do. There are plenty of things you can do to make a difference that doesn't involve killing people.
It seems you've put the weight of the world on your shoulders, tasking yourself to rid the planet of scum. But that isn't your job, Lorenzo. You aren’t a martyr. That's why we have a justice system in place.
You can always report to the deputies what you hear the child abusers say, and maybe you could testify at their trials and help put them away longer. There are other ways you can help keep the world safe without taking a life.
You matter, Lorenzo, and you deserve to live a full life. I wish you'd treat yourself as if your life does matter and that you deserve to live it free of this place.
Maybe someday you'll see in yourself what I see in you. I don't see a broken man beyond repair. I see someone who wants to help the world but goes about it the wrong way. Let me show you alternatives. You can do this. I believe in you.
Sincerely,
Amara Branson
Before I knew it, the next day at work, there was another letter at my small desk in Gerald's office. Another worksheet was completed, and I skimmed over it. I wondered what Lorenzo had to say now, so I opened the letter quickly.
Dear Amara,
You called me Lorenzo and not Mr. Ricci. I appreciate that more than you know.
As for your view of the world, I fear you see it through rose-colored glasses. If left up to the justice system alone, pedophiles would continue to slip through the cracks, and more children would keep getting hurt. I need to prevent that as much as I can. I can't just let it happen.
Legality is not always the basis of morality. It was once illegal to harbor Jewish people from the Nazis. Does that mean those who did should've just obeyed the law? Should they have let those people suffer and die?
That's how I see it. Pedophilia is an epidemic that must be stopped. If I could guarantee immediate reform, maybe then I would stop.
The jury system always seemed odd to me. Why fill the pews with random people? Why not have experts in body language, psychologists, or people who can pick up cues if the defendant or prosecutor is lying? That would already be a vast improvement. But even if I got a petition with thousands of signatures, it would take years before this was implemented.
That would be the first step for me to stop killing. Maybe then I would walk a different path. But until then, I don't see how I could stop.
-Enzo
I exhaled sharply. He was making progress, already considering alternatives to killing. It was a vast improvement, and my heart soared at the knowledge .
I grabbed a pen, noting the time. Today was my second visit with Lorenzo, so I wanted to finish and send out my letter before I saw him.
Dear Lorenzo,
I just got your letter and worksheet. Thank you for your candor. I know it can take a long time to make a difference. In the meantime, let's find other ways you can stop pedophiles.
As I mentioned in my previous letter, you can always report what you hear to the deputies. They can transmit this information to the judge and prosecutor and possibly get resentenced. You never know until you try.
I'm headed out to see you soon, so I have to cut this letter short. Keep doing your worksheets, Lorenzo. You're really getting somewhere, and I'm proud of you.
Sincerely,
Amara Branson
I stuffed the letter in the envelope and dropped it in the mailbox on the way to Ashwood Prison.
Gerald followed me in his car, and we were shown to one of the legal visit rooms. I sat next to Gerald and waited, my hands fidgeting as we waited .
Then the door buzzed open, and we stood.
Enzo was led inside, and the door clicked shut behind him. I almost rolled my eyes. He styled his hair, shaved his face, and looked like he made an effort to look presentable. Who did he think he was fooling here? There was no way I would go for an inmate.
No way in hell.
Lorenzo regarded me, his expression shuttered as he sat across from me.
Just as I suspected, he seemed to only open up through writing but maintained his tough persona on the outside. I figured it was a survival mechanism he'd adopted in prison.
Surely, it was seen as a sign of weakness, and a weak inmate was a dead inmate.
"Ms. Branson," he greeted.
"That’s Mrs. Branson,” Gerald corrected.
Lorenzo’s brows shot up. Didn’t he know I was married? I glanced at my ring finger, wondering if I forgot to wear my wedding ring last time. I looked back at him, and his expression was neutral again as if the information didn’t affect him at all.
“I’ve got good news for you, Mr. Ricci,” Gerald began. “The prosecution has agreed to drop the charges down to manslaughter. They don’t believe a jury of your peers would convict you of first or second-degree murder due to the nature of your victim’s crimes. The best they can hope for is manslaughter, and there is no minimum sentence. You have what, fifteen more years left to serve? As long as you get fifteen years or less, your stay in prison won’t change.”
“That’s if they make it concurrent,” Lorenzo corrected. “If they make my sentences consecutive, then I get thirty years. Fifteen for killing my coach and fifteen for Keith.”
“They shouldn’t do that,” I added. “Manslaughter and second-degree murder are different charges, and the severity is different. They shouldn’t give you a larger sentence for manslaughter than second-degree murder, which is the sentence you’re serving now. If you can show some sign of remorse—“
“I have no remorse,” Lorenzo snarled. “He won’t ever touch another child again. Neither of them will.”
I winced. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I looked to Gerald for guidance.
“Pretend, then,” Gerald suggested. “If nothing else but to get a more lenient sentence. ”
“I think I’ll get a more lenient one if I don’t show remorse,” he countered. “I’m the man who removes pedophiles from this plane. I think I should stick to being myself. Who wants to acquit someone who regrets killing pedophiles?”
“Unfortunately, we couldn’t prove that your coach was a pedophile,” Gerald began. “But if one of his victims were willing to testify, we could appeal—“
“No!” Lorenzo shouted, standing from his chair so fast I nearly jumped out of my skin. “She’s been through enough already. I won’t put her through that again!”
“Lorenzo,” I protested.
“Change the fucking subject, or I’m leaving,” he bellowed. “I won’t fucking budge on this.”
The door swung open, and a couple guards glanced at Lorenzo warily. “Everything okay in here?” one asked.
“I think it’s best we come back when Mr. Ricci is calmer,” Gerald suggested, standing. “We’ll return next week.”
“Don’t fucking bother,” Lorenzo snapped. “I don’t need your bullshit, Gerald. You can send Amara, but I don’t want to see you until you fucking change your tune. You work for me . Remember that. ”
One of the guards grabbed his arm, and Lorenzo smirked, glancing behind him. “Fucking Russo,” he chuckled as the other guard grabbed his other arm and they escorted him from the room.
“Well, that went well,” Gerald muttered sarcastically as he gathered his briefcase. “I’ll suggest it again at our next visit. He’ll call when he’s ready to see us again, but you can’t see him alone until your internship is over and if he hires you. So I’m sorry, Amara. Looks like you’ll be focusing on your other cases from now on.”
“What about our correspondence?” I wondered, standing and slinging my bag over my shoulder. “We were making such good progress.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Gerald gestured to the door sarcastically. “If you want to write to him on your own time, be my guest, but you can’t do it during company time or in the office anymore. As far as we’re concerned, until he asks to see us again, we’re finished with Mr. Ricci.”
My heart sank. Mark wouldn’t let me write Lorenzo. I would have to sneak around just to send him a letter.
I’ll wait until he writes back to me first, I decided. I didn’t want to risk another big fight with my husband if Lorenzo wasn’t going to write back to me anyway .
So the waiting game begins, I thought, following Gerald out of the prison and back to the office.