Enzo
Elusive Amara,
It's been three weeks, my little lawyer. Twenty-two days since I last heard from you. Five hundred and twenty-eight hours since I opened my cell door expecting another letter, another damn worksheet, some sign that you hadn't decided to forget about me. But there's nothing.
You're smart, so I know you won't pretend this is an accident. You wouldn't just stop writing unless you wanted to. Did I scare you? Did you wake up one morning and decide I wasn't worth the effort?
Or—tell me, Amara—did someone make that decision for you? Because if that's the case… if someone is standing between me and you, keeping my words from reaching you— I will find out. And I will handle it.
You once asked me what I'd do if I had the chance to rewrite my life. A clean slate. I told you men like me don't get clean slates. That regret is just an anchor we drag behind us.
But maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was supposed to be my shot. You were supposed to be my shot. And now, I don't know what' s worse—losing you before I ever really had you… or the fact that I'm starting not to care who I have to hurt to get you back.
Fix this. Write me back. Or I'll find another way to reach you.
-Enzo
The deputies walked past my cell every day, never delivering mail. Even Vitali received a few letters from his lawyer, but I got nothing.
As other inmates' letters piled high and mine remained empty, rage clawed in my gut. How dare Amara make me open up only to abandon me? Was this some kind of sick, malicious game she played? Was she undercover for the prosecutor, determined to make me snap and prove that I was guilty?
I sat at my desk, furiously scribbling on the shitty lined paper every prisoner got for writing letters.
Amara,
I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because I'm not ready to accept the truth. Maybe because some pathetic part of me still thinks you'll write back. Maybe because I need to get these words out before they rot inside me.
It's been six weeks. Forty-four days since your last letter. Over a thousand hours since I last saw your handwriting, since I last had proof that you still existed in my world.
I told myself to be patient. Maybe you got busy. Maybe you just didn't know what to say. But I'm done lying to myself.
You gave up on me. You told me I could be more. That I could change. But tell me, Amara, how the hell is a man supposed to change when the only person who believed in him decides he isn't worth the effort anymore?
You were the only thing keeping me human, and now I don't know what's left of me. I've seen men break in here and lose what little sanity they had left. I used to think I was stronger than that and that nothing could break me. Turns out, I was wrong. It wasn't the fights or the sentence, not even the thought of dying in this cage.
It was you. Or rather, the absence of you.
I hope you read this. I hope it makes you feel something—guilt, regret, fear, I don't care. Just something. Because you? You made me feel everything.
Now I feel nothing.
Don't bother writing back. I won't read it.
-Enzo
I stormed over to the large mailbox where every inmate dropped their letters to be sent off to the outside world. I slammed the letter inside and stomped back to my cell, gritting my teeth in barely restrained rage.
"Get Russo," I snapped to Vitali. "I need to see why this bitch stopped writing me."
Vitali whistled. "She better be dead if she knows what's good for her," he exclaimed. He knew I was a ticking time bomb, ready to explode.
When he returned with Russo, we had a plan. Vitali jumped me, shanking me where Russo called for a lockdown. He rushed me to medical, and in a blur, I was in an ambulance, headed to the hospital.
But when we arrived, and those doors opened, I slipped from my loose cuffs, knocked everyone out, and ran.
There was no one awake who could stop me.
The night air tasted like freedom, but it felt false when I knew it wouldn't last. I knew I'd get caught and get sent back to prison eventually.
Over these last weeks, I had my men on the outside look up Amara Branson. They gave me her home address, and that's where I ran to now. I hotwired a car and drove, pulling a stolen sweatshirt over my head. Her house wasn't far from the prison or the hospital. She was just out of my reach, but not right now.
Now she couldn't run from me.
I parked a block away, observing my surroundings. There was a small forest in front of Amara's house, and I blended in with the darkness across the street, crouching behind a tree.
The house was modest, with a white picket fence and a small yard, the kind that people bought to settle down in.
A bright glow spilled through the kitchen window, illuminating the darkness like a beacon.
And then I saw her. Amara. Her hair hung in a loose ponytail, an apron tied loosely around her waist, and her sleeves rolled up as she moved like she belonged. She was clearly in her element, her happy place, her world.
Like a fool, I let myself pretend that she was waiting for me to walk through the front door. She'd turn, smile, and welcome me home like I was still worth something.
But that fantasy was cut short when someone walked into the kitchen after her.
He placed his hand on her shoulder, the gold wedding band glinting in the light. He wore a suit and a loose tie, like a man who had never had to ask for anything his entire life. He was clearly her husband, and he kissed her cheek, telling her something that made her laugh.
Something broke inside me, and I could feel it in my chest. The sharp, jagged, and foreign feelings clawed up my throat.
Sorrow. Jealousy. Rage.
So this was why she stopped responding to my letters.
They sat at the dining room table, and she plated their food, setting a meal down in front of him, who should've been me.
I watched as they ate and laughed, and she wiped something off his chin and shook her head.
They were happy. She was happy.
That's when I knew. Amara deserved a normal life, a clean slate, and a man who loved her. Not the broken, twisted thing that I had become.
I had to let her go.
I sighed, letting the last light in me extinguish for good, exorcising it from my body. I turned, walked away, and disappeared into the shadows.
Back to the prison, the cage, and who I really was.
My wound throbbed in my side as guards seized me, dragging me back to the prison. I didn't resist as they haphazardly patched me up in medical, then threw me in the hole.
The days blended together. I sat in the darkness, letting the truth settle inside me.
Amara was gone, and she wasn't coming back. She was my last chance at something good, but now there was nothing left of me to save.
I surrendered myself to my demons, done pretending, and let them claim me.
When I emerged from solitary confinement into my cell, I knew I wasn't the same.
I ignored Vitali as he approached me. I went straight to the phones, dialing a number I'd memorized.
Gerald picked up on the second ring, listening to the pre-recorded message before the call finally connected us. "Mr. Ricci?"
"You're fired," I stated, my voice blank and void of emotion.
"What? Why?" he asked.
"Your services are no longer required," I admitted, my voice flat, empty, and dead.
"Mr. Ricci—"
I hung up, thoroughly uninterested in what he had to say.
Vitali called my name as I walked past him, lining up as the guards called for rec time. Inmates got one hour of outdoor time per day, and I wouldn't miss this time for the world.
Because the man I'd watched for weeks, ever since Amara stopped writing me, was going as well.
He was a child abuser and rapist, a monster worse than even me. He got transferred here recently, serving a puny two-year sentence. The justice system failed again, and he would be free to hurt more children once he got out.
Not on my watch.
I rushed him, grabbing his hair and stabbing my shiv between his ribs. His blood poured hot over my knuckles, and he gasped, gurgling pathetically as I rid the world of another piece of shit.
A thrill shivered up my spine. This was what I was meant to do, who I was born to be. If the judge and jury wouldn't execute them, I would.
The alarm blared through the speakers, a deafening echo I barely registered as I watched the spark of life leave my victim’s eyes. By the time the guards dragged me away, the world faded to static, satisfaction buzzing in my ears.
Amara was gone, and I was exactly what I was always meant to be.
A lost cause.
Amara
Weeks passed, and no letter from Lorenzo. I went to see him once more after our meeting, but he was closed off, giving one-word answers only. I felt like I was losing him and his chance at rehabilitation.
I looked everywhere. There were no letters in my home, at my office, or unexpected notes hidden inside legal paperwork; nothing.
I tried to rationalize it at first. Maybe I was being impatient, and Lorenzo was trying to figure things out. After all, being vulnerable and admitting your faults can be daunting. Maybe he just needed time.
But time moved in a slow crawl until I walked into the office six weeks after Lorenzo's last letter.
I sat at my boss's desk, skimming over case files, when my mentor barged into his office.
"Mrs. Branson," he began, his voice tight. "I need to speak to you about Mr. Ricci. "
My heart sank. Did he get killed in a prison brawl? Why did Gerald look so pained? Or was he finally reaching out?
"Mr. Ricci called and fired me this morning. He said he doesn't need legal representation," he informed.
Fired. Why would he fire Gerald? Was there a break in his case, and were the charges dropped? I quickly grabbed his file and flipped through it, finding no motion to dismiss or any new evidence.
My gut twisted. Lorenzo was making progress and getting better. Wasn't that what we both wanted? Had I misread him, and was he really as lost as he seemed in his letter? Did I project my hopes onto him, too na?ve to see the truth?
I glanced down at the pile of mail that accumulated on Gerald's desk. Some were unopened, but none were from Lorenzo.
I guess it doesn't matter anymore , I thought.
Gerald's voice broke through my hazy thoughts. "I don't know if you heard, but Mr. Ricci escaped."
My stomach dropped like lead, and I stiffened, the words hovering around my mind like it refused to accept them .
"How? Ashwood is maximum security," I exclaimed.
"He got out after he was shanked by his cellmate and ran from the ambulance once it arrived at the hospital," Gerald explained. "He was out for a few hours."
"Do you know why?" I wondered. "I don't think he's broken out before."
"This was his first breakout. But, Mrs. Branson," Gerald hesitated. "He was caught not far from your residence. We believe he saw you."
I recoiled, the truth hitting me like a punch in my chest. The air burned in my lungs as they seized, fear lancing in my heart.
"What do you mean he saw me?" I stammered.
"The police found evidence that he was near your house," he admitted.
The thought of a murderer watching me when I was in my home made my blood run cold.
"The break is still being investigated, but he's back in prison now," Gerald added.
Regret washed over me in waves as the realization hit me. I hadn't written back to him, though I didn't know why he stopped writing me. Did he feel abandoned or that I didn't care?
I blinked, fighting back tears at the thought.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Branson, I know the news must come as a shock," Gerald continued. "We can't help him now. He made his choice."
I inhaled a shaky breath, my hands trembling.
"Look, take the rest of the day off. I'd be upset too if a killer showed up at my house," Gerald offered.
I nodded, closing Lorenzo's file as I stood, smoothing out my skirt absent-mindedly. I gathered my things and hurried from the office.
I was barely aware of getting in my car and driving home, as if I was on autopilot until I found myself in the kitchen. I stared out the window like I could still feel him out there watching me.
The ghost of what we almost had.
Mark came in late that night, the sound of his jingling keys snapping me out of my trance. He kissed my forehead before he went to the kitchen to fix himself a drink, but I couldn't even focus on him.
"Did you give any thought to what I said?" he wondered, loosening his tie. "I think you should cut back your hours at least. Look at you; you look shaken."
But he had no idea. I couldn't even concentrate, let alone process what he was saying.
My thoughts were filled with the man I couldn't forget, even after everything.
Lorenzo was back in prison, but there was no way for me to reach him. I stopped writing to him since he never reached out.
But maybe it wasn't his fault. Letters got lost in the mail all the time, and maybe even the guards were malicious enough to keep him from his mail. Mark told me to stop writing to him, and since I hadn't heard from Lorenzo, I did.
I swallowed, feeling a sense of loss deeper than it should be.
What if I'd written him anyway? If I had done things differently, could I have saved him? Could I have been the one to ensure he found redemption?
My phone rang. I picked it up, putting the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"Hi, Mrs. Branson, it's Gerald. I'm sorry to say, Mr. Ricci killed another inmate."
I gasped.
"There's nothing more we can do for him. He was too far gone—"
But his voice faded away.
It was too late now; I knew it in my soul. He was too far gone, and I would never see him again. The worst part was that I wasn't even sure if I was wrong about him anymore. I knew there was good in him somewhere and that I hadn't been fooled.
But now, that good was gone, extinguished like the last flames lingering in a campfire.
Could someone like Lorenzo change? Could someone like him truly become a better man, or was I lying to myself this entire time?
I stood in the kitchen, staring out the window, and I realized something that shook me to my core.
I missed him, and not just the idea of him. Now, he was gone for good.
And it was my fault.