Chapter 9 #5
No father—alive somewhere, pulling strings from the shadows but never pulling me free.
No mother—ashes scattered by Ruslan’s cruel hand.
No friends left who could survive the stain of my name.
Yannis.
Sweet, quiet Yannis. The boy who had started to smile at me in those brief moments before Ruslan walled him off. Who had looked at me like I mattered.
Would he remember me?
Or would Ruslan erase me from his life the way he’d erased everything else—photos, memories, truth?
Tears welled up, burning, heavy.
But I swallowed them down.
We entered the main block—a thunderous cacophony of slamming metal doors, echoing shouts, and the overpowering stench of unwashed bodies, cheap disinfectant, and despair that seemed to coat the very walls.
Iron doors lined both sides, each with a small barred window, tiny portals into the cages of misery that awaited the women inside.
Voices erupted immediately, rising and falling like waves of menace.
“Fresh meat!”
“Look at the pretty one—gonna break quick!”
“Welcome to hell, bitch!”
My stomach churned, bile rising, and I forced my eyes forward, gripping the waistband of my loose jumpsuit.
Was this... my life now?
A sentence of decades in concrete tombs, where age, violence, and desperation would take their toll?
The thought pressed against my chest, suffocating.
Prison gangs would sniff out my weakness before I even reached the bunk.
They would know I was alone—the wife of a mafia kingpin, isolated, cut off from protection, with only my name to mark me.
I’d be a target, a message, or worse.
My pulse quickened. Every instinct screamed that I could not falter, could not show a single sign of fear.
Cell 40 loomed at the end of the tier.
Ramirez, steady and unflinching, produced a heavy keyring and jiggled it in the lock.
The door creaked open, the smell of stale sweat, ammonia, and the faint metallic tang of blood greeting me before I even stepped inside.
“This is yours. Your cellmates are inside.”
I hesitated, peering in.
Five women packed into a space meant for two—bunks stacked three high, the stained toilet in the corner, graffiti scarring the walls in desperate, angry loops.
They lounged like predators in a den.
One with a shaved head and a tattooed neck leaned against the wall, chewing something with deliberate, slow motions.
Another was braiding cornrows into a third’s hair, eyes flicking up to me, calculating.
Hairstyles screamed defiance—buzz cuts, mohawks dyed blood red, braids threaded tight against leathered skin.
Their gazes were raw, hungry, devouring.
I swallowed. My throat felt thick, dry, raw.
And then I heard a voice that froze me to the bone.
“Elena.”
I spun around.
My jaw dropped.
Officer Harlan. My aunt’s husband.
The man who had tormented me as a girl—the monster who had violated me three times under the guise of family, evading every accusation with lies, threats, and smiles that curled like venom.
He was here. Now. In uniform, badge gleaming mockingly, chest puffed slightly, paunch stretching the fabric snug over it.
That same cruel leer, those piggy, untrustworthy eyes.
Every memory of pain, shame, and helplessness rushed back like a tidal wave, leaving me trembling in place.
He waved Ramirez away. “Go on, Ramirez. I’ll lock up,” he said, voice smooth, commanding, like a predator marking territory.
Ramirez hesitated for barely a second before handing over the keys without protest, a quiet nod the only acknowledgment, and turned to leave.
Harlan’s smirk widened, yellowed teeth flashing under the flickering light. “Isn’t it poetic,” he said, low and deliberate, “how fate circles back? We’ll have so much fun here, Elena. Just like old times.”
He chuckled—a guttural, wet sound that twisted my gut, curling it around fear and nausea. “Step inside.”
I froze, rooted to the spot.
Every horror I’d imagined here—gang beatings, starvation, isolation, slow erosion of identity—paled against him.
Here, with access, with authority, with keys jingling like tiny instruments of torture.
“I said get in!” His face contorted, rage coiling into his barked command, identical to the ones he’d used when pinning me down as a child.
My body betrayed me before my mind could catch up. Knees weak, stomach lurching, I stumbled forward into the cell.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the women rose as one.
The cramped room seemed to shrink further as they circled me like wolves, necks cracking with audible pops, knuckles flexing and snapping, the sound punctuated by soft, anticipatory hisses.
“She’s my bitch from the outside,” Harlan announced through the bars, satisfaction dripping from each word. “I want her kept that way. You girls want those extra fish portions you’ve been whining about? Teach the bitch a lesson. Make it hurt.”
The cell door slammed shut behind me, a final, metallic clang that echoed like a gunshot.
His laughter trailed down the hall, fading into the din of shouts, slamming doors, and distant clanging.
The one with the neck tattoos cracked her neck again, grinning like a snake. “Boss man’s got favorites, huh? Let’s welcome you proper, new girl.”
I flinched as fists clenched and unclenched, shadows flickering across the walls, the anticipation tangible.
Nowhere to run. No one to protect me. My arms were useless against five women who had already decided my fate.
This wasn’t just prison.
This was hell.
And it had only just begun.