Chapter Eleven
ELIJAH
F oxx may be the reason I’ve been sleeping like a baby for the last couple of days, thanks to my new mattress, but that didn’t mean he had a right to touch what was mine.
When I’d gotten back to my cell with my new tablet, a new mattress wasn’t the only thing that greeted me. My cubby had been filled with contraband foods, smokes for trading and even bottles of whiskey and an expensive Russian vodka. Jules had provided me with a wealth in prison currency, between the booze and snacks, but I also discovered a stash of hygiene products and some X-rated magazines.
Beans had been laying silently on his bunk, on top of his new mattress, when I’d returned.
“Are you really the Left Hand?” He whispered, not turning to look at me.
“Did you ever think I wasn’t?”
“No. Maybe. I dunno.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “I thought you were someone important and scary, but then you’ve been so quiet. You haven't made any moves or demanded anything. It didn’t make sense.”
“I’m a patient man, Benny.” I said, taking a smoke and lighting it, careful to blow my smoke out the window. Jules had provided me with lighters and matches. Some to trade, some to keep. “Only those who have a fragile grip on their power feel the need to flaunt it.”
An awkward stillness had filled the cell, and I realized how much I was used to Beans filling the space with his endless chatter. “Your quietness is disconcerting.”
He snorted, rubbing his face with both hands. “I don’t even know what that means, Creed.”
Exhaling a plume of smoke, I savored the quality of the tobacco. “It means you don’t need to fear me…unless you cross me.”
Beans had leaned up on his arms to glance my way. “Yeah. Okay. So, the snacks in my cubby…”
His question made me laugh, it was very Beans to think with his stomach first.
Something else that made me think he hadn't grown up with a lot. “They’re yours. Do with them what you will.”
I hadn’t touched anything else from my stash yet, waiting for the right moment. And when Officer Foxx had tried to assert his authority, I realized maybe it was time to start setting things in motion.
I know Ava’s eyes are still following me as I approach Ilya and his men. I can feel her stare burning into my skin with a delicious tingle that I’ve come to associate with her.
“ Levana Ruka ,” the large man grunts in greeting as I approach. His pale hair and blue eyes make me wonder if he’s a relation of the Volkov’s, but his face holds none of their elegance. A long silvery scar runs down the left side of his face, cutting into his mouth.
“Butcher,” I return.
Ilya Gorev hadn’t always been an arms dealer. No, like all good Russian Bratva boys, he’d gotten his hands bloody and worked his way up. His reputation still preceded him, and the nickname had stuck.
“What do you want?” Straight to the point, I like it. Sometimes the posturing with The Cartel or even other members of The Family drove me wild. Just say what you’re fucking thinking and make my life a whole lot easier.
“My boss has sent some gifts,” I explain, taking a seat on the bench beside him. “Beans will deliver them to you after dinner.”
“In exchange for?”
“Your support—should I need it.”
“The Volkov’s owe you no allegiance,” he reminds me, his accent giving his words weight. And it’s true. We traded with the Volkov’s, but no official partnership had been cemented yet beyond our deal for firearms. “But still my boss offers it.”
“Speak to Lev often?” I ask with a curious tilt of my head. Lev Volkov hadn’t been seen in public in almost two-years, and I should know. It was part of my job to monitor the risks to The Family and Jules.
Ilya’s face is a blank mask as he turns to look me in the eye. “That’s none of your business, Creed.”
“ Da, da, da .” I reply, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from my chest pocket and offering him one. “I’m likely going to do something a little stupid in a few days, I need you and your men to stand back and not get in my way.”
His icy eyes narrow, looking me over for God knows what, but whatever it is, he doesn’t find it as he nods sharply once.
“Hey, where can I get a decent haircut around here? And possibly some new ink.”
Ilya’s brow lifts, and he lets out a small chuckle. “Deliver your gifts yourself and my men will sort you out.”
A bell sounds, letting us know yard time is over, and with a crook of my finger at Beans, I get to my feet once more and we head inside.
Later that evening, once we’re back in our cell, a little tipsy and with my long hair now gone, replaced with comb-over of sorts and shaved sides, and new ink carved into my chest, I crawl onto my bunk. Getting comfortable, I pull my tablet out from underneath my pillow—not that my cell was at risk of being searched anymore. Fucking Foxx-face was good for something.
I pull up the files Cato, Rosie’s right-hand, had sent me on Ava Bishop, daughter of Judge Joseph Walters, and the late Georgina Walters, née Bishop. So many players were on the board with no idea how the game was run. But they would learn.
When it’s lights out, I check the time and see that Officer Bishop should be arriving home any moment now. Opening an app Cato had to install remotely for me, I login and lay back as I watch Ava let herself into her apartment.
Being the Left Hand came with its perks, one of which was having the means to rent an apartment in the building opposite and set up surveillance. Trusting Cato with the task had been a risk, since their allegiance was primarily to the Queen of Hearts, but over the last couple of months we’d become friends, of sorts. If Jules knew what I was doing, he’d call me on my creepy stalker ways, but he didn’t understand—Ava Bishop was different. She was the key to everything. I could feel it in my bones. And if Rosie knew, well, she might just add her to the KC to be a cunt and win.
For the last three days, someone was stationed in the apartment when Ava was home. They also tailed her if she left the building, and it was only when she was trapped inside these walls with me, they were no longer needed. I received daily reports and updates if anything interesting happened. I protect what is mine. Even if I plan to be the one to break it.
I even had eyes on one Chad Wilson, and while he was a dull as fuck finance bro, a few of his clients had piqued my interest. Cato was looking into that situation a little deeper for me, tugging on that red string until the entire board unraveled.
While Cato was occupied in the outside world, I decided it was time to get the wheels turning on the inside. I had an art class to enroll in.
T wo days later, I’m cleaning one of the recreational rooms in the cellblock, keeping a careful eye on the clock. Beans is mopping away, humming some awful tune as he loses himself in the task.
When I’d been grabbing my supplies, I’d found a small metal file in the cleaning closet and I thought it might come in handy for the little brawl I had planned, so I’d slipped it inside my boot. Nothing was going to stop me from getting into the art class, not even a giant called Tiny.
The officer overseeing us today is a lazy fucker that goes by the name of Swanson. He literally couldn’t give a fuck what happens as long as it’s no extra work for him. That’s what had allowed me to spend a little longer in the chemicals closet earlier, mixing up my cleaning fluid in a way that made it dangerous.
As the clock finally ticks over to 2:25pm, I knock the chemical glass cleaner off the windowsill and let the liquid spill down my legs. Planning for this, I’d padded out my overalls with extra rags, but it would only buy me a few moments before my flesh would start to burn. Fucking chemical burns were horrible to deal with.
“Officer,” I call out, adding some panic to my voice. “I’ve spilled chemicals on myself.”
All the other inmates on cleaning duties turn to look at me, pausing their tasks, but I ignore them.
Beans rushes to my side. “Shit, Creed. Are you alright?”
“No, it fucking burns!” I hissed. Why was I surrounded by idiots?
Officer Swanson rolls his eyes before getting off his ass to come over and take a closer look. He eyes my damp overalls wearily.
“Has it soaked through?” he asks, probably trying to work out what he can do without having to really do anything.
I nod, but he just continues to stare at my damp legs, obviously trying to think. Think faster fucker.
“Sir, it burns,” I grunt with a twitch of my jaw. The man is an idiot.
“Go wash it off then Creed and report to medical once you're done. Beans, go with him. No messing around from either of you.” He finally replies. It must be like waiting to connect to the dial-up internet inside his head. “I’ll let Anderson know you’re on your way to the shower block.”
Beans tries to wrap an arm around my waist to guide me, and for a few moments I keep up the charade and let him, but once we’re outside the rec room, I give him a glare that makes him wither away.
“Oh. Are you even hurt?”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Not yet, but there’s still time.”
Everything slots into place as we walk towards the showers. There’s an officer outside keeping guard. I assume he’s Anderson, but he’s another one of the lazy ones, not unlike the fucker on cleaning duties. He barely glances up as he sits there with his headphones in, which benefits me, but I still scoff. How is he supposed to supervise his inmates if he’s sat outside and can’t even hear them?
It’s not my problem, but as the Left Hand, I make a mental note to email Cato later with some feedback for our own officers in Newtown.
Striding in, I quickly strip off my filthy overalls and toss them aside. I get rid of the extra padding and adjust the file in my boot so that I can just grab it if I need it. Nothing worse than fishing around in my shoe while someone beats on me.
With a nod of my head, I motion for Beans to position himself just inside the doorway and stop anyone else from entering.
The watching and waiting I’d done pays off as I see Tiny step out of the showers, towel wrapped tightly around his waist, almost like clockwork after his landscaping duties.
With a quick glance around, I can’t spot anyone else, so I step up to him. I know he knows who I am. He’s been observing me out of the corner of his eye as he heads towards his clothes.
I call out, “Hey fuckface, don’t take this personally but I need you to drop out of Officer Bishop's art class.”
The overhead light glints off his bald head, his skin flushes red from the shower, tattoos looking angry as he pulls on his underwear and then his orange pants.
“Fuck off, Creed.’ he growls as he pushes me aside. “You’ve got no power here.”
Up this close I appreciate just how large this bastard is, and if he wasn’t a filthy fucking Cartel member, I’d even consider inviting him for a few rounds at The Gryphon, the Family run boxing ring.
“I may not have Family power here, behind these bars. But just how do you think I rose to the top?” I give him a sinister grin as I crack my knuckles.
He huffed a laugh. “Shit floats. Everyone knows that.”
Sighing dramatically, I rub my temples. “Tell Carlos Lopez Jr. I tried to keep this civil, but you wanted to do it the hard way.”
With that, he spins and glares at me, his eyes narrowed. Then he tilts his head back and laughs. “You think you can take me?”
“Oh, I know I’m going to.”
“Bring it on, the Left Hand of nothing.” He’s trying to rile me up, but it won’t work.
I want this.
I need it.
Need his blood on my hands. Soaking into my skin.
All for her.
He stands with his arms open, chest bare, as if he was welcoming a lover instead of an enemy. His ink covers most of his skin and near his heart, I can see a tally score. He’s a death collector. That suits me just fine, I love a challenge.
Launching myself at him, I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, grabbing my wrists behind his back and I keep pushing until I force us both against the wall hard. I hear a tile or two crack and the air whoosh from his lungs.
Quickly I get a few punches in, a jab to the ribs, a right-hook that crunches his nose and sends blood pouring, but it isn’t enough as he pushes me away.
He lands a few good punches. I can feel a rib crack, but he doesn’t realize that I was built for this, trained for it. A few broken bones won’t stop me, I’ve endured worse.
As I’m bent over, winded, I grab my little file, narrowly missing the knee he aims at my face. Darting out, I make several slashes along the underside of his ribs and the fleshy part underneath his right arm. They are only minor cuts that look like scratches, but I’m willing to bet they sting like fuck.
Sick of my darting and diving around him, he grabs my head and, with more force than I anticipate, headbutts me. I swear I’m seeing stars, if only for a second, as my file falls onto the tile with a metallic clang.
“Fucker,” he growls as little beads of blood mingle with the water and sweat on his skin. The only thing keeping me up right now is him as far as he thinks, as his hands bunch up in my T-shirt, holding me in place.
He’s not prepared when I drop my weight, bringing us both crashing to the ground. I launch myself towards him as we fall, maneuvering myself on top, straddling him as I grab his head and bash it against the floor. He shoves me away, giving him the space needed to roll over and try to crawl away.
But this is exactly what I wanted—him on his stomach, squirming before me. Quickly scrambling back up his body like a monkey climbing a coconut tree, I fight against him, bucking me off.
“Did you know thumbscrews are often wrongly attributed to the Middle Ages?” Pinning his body with mine, using my legs and weight to keep him in place, I lean forward and grab his thumbs. “They’re actually an early modern invention. Now I don’t have thumbscrews, but…”
With a sharp crack, I snap both of his thumbs like they’re nothing more than a crab's leg and I’m at a seafood boiler restaurant.
“Same kind of thing I guess.”
He howls, and I let go as he brings his hands into his body. Placing my hands on either side of his head, I angle him carefully before slamming him down on the tiles.
Once. Smash.
Twice. Crunch.
Three times. Crack.
He stops moving beneath me, and I roll him over to make sure he’s still alive. Yep, alive, but very mangled.
A sick thrill goes through me as I spot the file glinting. I may not be willing to kill him, but that doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft. Grabbing the knife, I make two ragged incisions, slicing into his mouth like he’s nothing more than a roasted ham. Laugh at me now, fucker.
A small noise comes from one of the toilet cubicles, bloody and sore. Pushing to my feet, I kick open the door to find a prisoner called Kal Fonda sitting on the shitter, trying to keep quiet.
Kal is a man who can get you almost anything in here. He’s a contraband expert for the inmates who don’t have their own Julian Asaro. That makes him someone useful to have on my side.
“Hey man, I saw nothing.” He holds his hands up in surrender, trembling as he tries not to fall off the crapper. I almost laugh as adrenaline courses through me, he’d literally been caught with his pants down.