Chapter One

The trial was a nightmare. Milo Mueller had never had any contact with the law, never spoken to a police officer, never been arrested before.

And now he was going to jail.

The prison bus rattled along the cracked asphalt, jostling Milo with every bump. His wrists chafed against the hard metal cuffs. He stared out the grated window at the sprawling complex of weathered brick and rusty fences topped with razor wire.

This couldn’t be happening.

One of the guards grunted and shoved him. “On your feet, pretty boy.”

Milo winced at the rough hands yanking him up. He stumbled after the guards, head down, as they led him out to the intake yard of Vanguard Penitentiary. The echoing clang of the gates made his heart lurch.

Inmates leered at him through the chain link fences, hollering crude remarks. He hunched his shoulders, trying to disappear into himself. The guards barked at the sneering men to back off.

They passed a yard where others milled about in their drab uniforms, the fabric stained and worn. The stench of the place overwhelmed him—sweat, mildew, and despair all mingled into one repulsive reek.

Inside the building, it was even worse. The cacophony of shouts, clanging metal, and raucous laughter were deafening. Graffiti decorated every surface, the crude words and drawings making it clear he was far from home.

His polished leather oxfords slipped on the scuffed linoleum as the guards shoved him down a corridor. Milo’s breaths came in terrified pants. He’d never seen anything like this hellish place.

This couldn’t be his life now. Sickening panic gripped him imagining the days stretching into an endless nightmare in this place. His mind raced, still unable to fully grasp how he’d ended up here.

The trial seemed a blur now. He remembered the stark courtroom, the air thick with dread as the damning evidence piled up. Milo had done as he’d been told by the family lawyer, said the things Greenwood had told him to and reassured himself that everything would be fine. It wasn’t his fault. He’d only done what his father ordered.

For years, Milo blindly followed Walter Mueller’s every command. As one of the heirs to the family’s real estate empire, he had been groomed from birth to obey without question. So when his father told him he was best positioned to bear the brunt of the legal proceedings and would be let off with a warning, Milo didn’t argue.

When the judge had handed down the sentence, five years in prison, Milo hadn’t been able to believe it. His father had promised he’d be protected, that the family would handle everything. Part of Milo still clung to the hope that his father would appear in an instant to rescue him, but that hope was struggling in the flickering fluorescent lights of Vanguard Penitentiary.

The guards shoved Milo into a bare, concrete room reeking of disinfectant. “Strip,” one barked, his face twisted in a sneer.

Milo froze, his eyes widening. “W-what? I don’t—”

“You heard me, pretty boy. Get those fancy clothes off now.”

Trembling, Milo unbuttoned his shirt with shaking fingers. He avoided the guards’ mocking stares as he peeled off each layer of armor he’d worn for his court appearance—the tailored navy suit, the conservative tie, his silk boxer briefs. Stripped bare, he hunched his shoulders, goosebumps prickling his skin.

“Well aren’t you a sight,” a guard guffawed as he shoved Milo’s clothes into a garbage bag. “Don’t forget the watch.”

Milo hesitated. “It’s a Patek Philippe,” he said, but the guard snorted at him.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s made by NASA. Hand it over before we rip it off your wrist.”

Milo did as he was told. Heat flooded his cheeks as the guards openly leered at his naked body. He tried to cover himself, but they barked at him to turn around slowly.

“Bend over and cough.”

Milo’s mouth went dry. “W-what? No, I won’t—”

The butt of a nightstick cracked against the back of his knees, and he crumpled to the ground with a cry. The guards seized his arms, holding him down as they performed the dehumanizing inspection.

“P-please, you don’t have to do this,” Milo begged, tears burning his eyes. “My father—”

“Your daddy ain’t here, rich boy,” one sneered. “Better get used to doing what you’re told.”

“That’s not all he’ll have to get used to,” another muttered, which earned a nasty laugh from the other.

They hauled him up and thrust an orange jumpsuit at him. Milo’s hands shook violently as he struggled into the shapeless outfit, the fabric rough and stiff and unlike anything he’d been forced to wear before. Someone shoved a drawstring sack into his arms; linens and toiletries, apparently. He clutched it to his chest desperately.

This couldn’t be real. Just that morning he’d been drinking coffee from a fine bone china cup in his father’s house. Now he was being mocked and degraded by these brutal men.

But his father would fix this. Walter Mueller had assured him he’d fix it, and Milo would be out in no time. As horrible as this was, it was only temporary. His dad would come through, he always did. All Milo had to do was keep his head down and do as instructed.

Squaring his shoulders, Milo lifted his chin defiantly as the guards marched him out of the room. He refused to let them see his fear. He was Milo Mueller, and he wasn’t going to be in this squalid place much longer.

A cacophony of shouts and jeers assaulted Milo as he was marched down the cell block. Inmates pressed their faces against the bars, leering and hollering crude remarks.

“Hey baby, you lost?”

“Someone tell Lewis he’s not the prettiest bitch on the block anymore!”

Milo kept his eyes forward, his jaw clenched. But he couldn’t block out the vulgar suggestions and explicit threats snarled at him from all sides. His face burned with humiliation.

A heavily muscled man with a shaved head and a teardrop inked beneath his eye fixed Milo with a predatory stare. “Mmm, looks like fresh fish is on the menu tonight.”

The other inmates broke into raucous laughter. Milo’s stomach twisted into knots. He swallowed hard, panic clawing at his throat.

This was no joke. This was real. These hardened criminals saw him as nothing more than fresh meat to be toyed with and abused. Milo was utterly defenseless against them.

He clenched his fists to keep from visibly trembling. He couldn’t let them see how terrified he was. If any of these men got their hands on him…

“Who…who will I be rooming with?” His voice came out higher and reedy than he’d intended.

The guards guffawed, exchanging mocking looks. “Ooh, he’s worried about his cellie! You hear that, Briggs? Pretty boy wants to make sure he gets a nice roommate!”

Briggs, a hulking guard with a shaved head and cold eyes, snorted. “Yeah, probably hoping for a big daddy to take care of him.”

They broke into nasty guffaws and Milo flushed, shame heating his face. He wished he could disappear into the cracked cement floor.

Briggs leaned in close, his rancid breath hot on Milo’s face. “Your cellmate’s gonna eat you alive.”

Milo swallowed hard, trying to keep his rising panic at bay. “What?”

“Torres is a real hard case. Colombian. Runs with Los Lagos cartel.”

The other guards snickered, exchanging looks that made the hairs prickle on the back of Milo’s neck. He didn’t know one cartel from another, but everyone had heard the horrific stories of what they did to people who crossed them. He fought to keep his face impassive, to not let them see just how deeply terrified he was.

One of the other guards piped up, leering at Milo cruelly. “A while back, Torres got into it with this neo-Nazi piece of shit in the yard. Beat that boy to within an inch of his life with his bare hands. Wasn’t even a fight, really. Torres just wailed on him like he was a rag doll.”

The guards guffawed again, shaking their heads. Milo’s mouth went dry, imagining massive, calloused hands raining down blow after blow…

“Yeah, Torres is one sick puppy.” Briggs grinned wolfishly at Milo. “So you better be a good little bitch for him. ‘Cause you won’t want to piss that guy off.”

Bile burned the back of Milo’s throat. His heart thundered in his ears, panic clawing its way up from his gut. This couldn’t be happening. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back furiously. He refused to give these sadistic pigs the satisfaction of seeing him break down. Taking a shuddering breath, he lifted his chin in a show of defiance he didn’t feel.

“You’re lying,” he said, his voice wavering only slightly. “He wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t what?” Briggs cut him off with a sneer. “Kill you? Beat you to a pulp? Use you as his own personal cock sleeve?”

The guards cackled riotously at that, clapping each other on the back. Milo flushed crimson, humiliation joining the sick dread roiling in his gut.

Torres was going to kill him. Or worse, use him as a brutal plaything to be beaten and violated however that sadistic monster saw fit. The thought of being at the mercy of a vicious criminal’s depravities made Milo want to crumple to the floor.

He was as good as dead.

The cells were open fronted, with bars and a gate. There was no privacy. Milo could see they were all basically the same. They stopped abruptly in front of one. One of the guards unlocked the gate with a loud clang and jerked it open. “Your new home, princess.”

The cell was small and bare, a stark contrast to the lavish bedrooms in his family’s mansion. A set of metal bunk beds stood against one wall, the thin mattresses looking hard and uncomfortable. A stainless-steel toilet and sink combo protruded from the opposite corner.

On the floor in the center of the cell, a muscular Latino man was doing push-ups. He was wearing his jumpsuit as pants, the top half hanging loose around his waist to expose his undershirt, drenched with sweat. His bronzed skin rippled over toned muscles with each movement.

Torres. The man the guards had gleefully described as a murderous monster.

Milo swallowed hard, rooted to the spot. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to beg to be put somewhere—anywhere—else. But the guards were already shoving him through the doorway.

Torres paused mid-push-up and looked up, his brow furrowing. He rose fluidly to his feet, chest heaving with exertion. Up close, he looked even more intimidating, over six feet of muscle towering over Milo like a monster.

Milo couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man’s hands. They were huge, the knuckles calloused and scarred from countless fights. He imagined those brutal hands wrapping around his throat, squeezing until he stopped struggling…

“Who the fuck is this?” Torres’s low voice snapped Milo out of his terrified reverie.

The guard Briggs sneered. “This is your new cellie.”

Torres looked Milo up and down appraisingly. Milo flushed under the cold scrutiny, feeling utterly inferior. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller.

“He doesn’t look like he’ll last a week,” Torres said flatly.

The guards guffawed loudly. “You’ll toughen him up, won’t you Torres? Make a man outta him.”

Cruel laughter echoed off the walls. Milo’s face burned with humiliation and fear. These men were basically throwing him to the wolves.

The barred gate of the cell clanged shut with a sickening finality. Milo was alone in this tiny cell with a dangerous criminal, potentially a violent psychopath.

Torres loomed over him, his muscular frame casting an imposing shadow. Milo couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man’s biceps. Torres’s olive skin glistened with a sheen of sweat.

This man looked like he could snap Milo in half. The guards’ taunts about Torres beating his victims to a bloody pulp with his bare hands replayed in Milo’s mind. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry with terror.

“I, uh…” Milo stammered, desperate to diffuse the tension but utterly at a loss. “I’m Milo. Milo Mueller.”

He extended a hand automatically, his mother’s etiquette lessons so deeply ingrained. Torres simply stared at the offered hand with a look of utter disgust. Milo flushed and snatched it back, flustered.

“I guess these accommodations leave something to be desired,” he joked weakly, forcing a sickly grin as he gestured at the dingy cell.

In a flash, Torres closed the distance between them. He seized a fistful of Milo’s jumpsuit and slammed him against the concrete wall, the breath rushing from Milo’s lungs in a pained wheeze. The sack of linens and toiletries dropped out of his hands.

Torres leaned in until they were nearly nose-to-nose, his expression twisted into a sneer of contempt. “You think this is a fucking holiday, princesa?” His low voice dripped with menace. “It’s not a resort.”

Milo trembled, frozen in terror. The cold rage in Torres’s eyes promised unspeakable violence. The guard’s warnings about Torres murdering his last cellmate echoed in Milo’s mind. What chance did someone like him stand against this hardened brute?

Torres leaned in closer until his breath ghosted over Milo’s face. “Pretty boys like you have a real bad time in places like this. So keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself.”

Milo’s heart thundered in his ears, pure animal panic gripping him. Torres’s words weren’t just a threat, they were a chilling promise.

With a grunt of disgust, Torres shoved himself away, leaving Milo crumpled against the wall, his chest heaving. Torres returned to his pushups as if nothing had happened, acting as though Milo wasn’t even there. Milo hugged his arms around himself, wishing he could simply disappear from this nightmare.

How was he going to survive in here? Trapped in this cell with a violent, hair-trigger maniac who could snap and slaughter him at any moment. He was utterly at Torres’s mercy, and this man clearly had none.

Trembling, Milo bent to retrieve the sack he’d dropped. Then he surveyed the cramped cell, looking for somewhere to put them down. The top bunk was just a bare mattress. His eyes fell on the lower bunk, neatly made with a thin blanket and flat pillow, a book neatly lined up on the pillow. Torres’s territory, no doubt.

“Um…” Milo swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Should I take the top bunk?”

Torres didn’t even look up from his push-ups, his face set in a scowl. “I don’t give a fuck where you sleep. The floor’s free if you want it.”

Milo flushed, mortified. He skirted around Torres’s and unpacked the sack onto the top bunk. The meagre toiletries went back in the sack. Awkwardly, he made up the bed. The pillow barely deserved the name, flat as a pancake. Milo put the sack in the corner of the bunk, against the wall. Then he tucked himself into the corner of the cell, unsure what else he was supposed to do.

Torres finished his push-ups and stood, stretching his thick arms over his head. His sweaty undershirt rode up, exposing a sliver of toned abdomen above the folded back waist of his prison jumpsuit. Milo averted his eyes hurriedly, heat flooding his face.

“This is my cell,” Torres stated flatly, pinning Milo with a hard look. “You’re just a guest here, comprende?”

Milo bobbed his head rapidly. “Y-Yes, of course. I understand completely.”

“That means you do what I say, when I say it.” Torres’s cold eyes bored into him. “No lip, no backtalk. You hear me?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Milo cringed inwardly at how meek and simpering he sounded. But he knew crossing this brutish man would be a deadly mistake.

Torres grunted, apparently satisfied for now. He retrieved the worn paperback novel from his bunk and stretched out on the mattress. Milo watched him surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, noting the tensed muscles in Torres’s powerful arms as he read. This man looked like he could snap Milo’s slender frame over his knee without breaking a sweat.

“Go to bed,” Torres said without looking up.

Milo nodded jerkily, and climbed up onto the rickety top bunk, wincing as the springs creaked beneath his weight. He curled up on his side, hugging his knees to his chest as he struggled not to break down.

This couldn’t be happening. This time last year he’d been lounging by the pool at home, without a care in the world. Now he was trapped in this squalid concrete box, at the mercy of a violent criminal who looked like he could crush Milo’s skull with his bare hands.

The guards’ taunts about Torres nearly beating a man to death replayed in Milo’s mind, making his blood run cold. If Torres decided Milo was a threat or just felt like lashing out…

Milo shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears leaking out of them. He was utterly powerless here. No money or family connections could protect him. All it would take was one wrong move, one perceived insult, and Torres could unleash unspeakable violence upon him.

A strangled sob escaped Milo’s lips before he could stifle it. He buried his face in the flat prison pillow, muffling the pathetic sounds as his slender frame shook with pent-up fear and despair. He couldn’t let Torres see him like this. The man would surely see his tears as unforgivable weakness to be punished.

Surely his father was working even now to get him released from this hellish nightmare. Walter Mueller always got his way through sheer implacable will and deep pockets. Soon, the family’s army of lawyers would descend, and Milo would be extricated from this grim purgatory, back to the comfort and security he was accustomed to.

He just had to avoid drawing Torres’s wrath until then. Do whatever that brutish monster demanded, no matter how dehumanizing or degrading. Anything to stay off his radar and avoid a beating, or worse. He couldn’t give Torres any excuse to lash out, to punish him for some perceived slight or weakness.

Just keep your head down and survive,he told himself firmly. Your father will get you out of here. You’ll be home soon. This will all be over before you know it.

But in this cell, with the cacophony of the prison echoing off the walls, he couldn’t make himself believe it.