Chapter Eleven

Rafael invited Milo to sit with him in the shade. Milo looked down at the dirt, wondering if he was supposed to sit there, but Rafael patted the bench beside him.

Milo nervously took the seat. “Uh. So. Um. You and Torres…” He trailed off, unsure how to phrase the question.

Rafael arched an eyebrow at him. “Ey, you think we’re fucking or something? A couple of maricones?”

Milo shook his head, his cheeks burning. “No! No, I just wondered how you know each other.” His heart raced, and he hopes Rafael wouldn’t change his mind and beat the shit out of him.

But Rafael just shrugged. “It’s prison. How do you think?”

“You’re both Latino…” Milo said cautiously.

“That doesn’t mean shit on the outside,” Rafael said bluntly. “No, he’s Los Lagos. I’m with Los Hermanos. Our bosses…they have this agreement, so. Rafael is like a friend of the family. But in here, we have to stick together. Plus, the Latinos in here…we were in a bad way before. Too much infighting. Now? We’re strong. It’s good for all of us.”

Milo didn’t really understand much of that. “What do you mean by ‘the lakes’?” His high school Spanish had picked out that much, ‘lakes’ and ‘brothers’, but he didn’t know what it meant.

Rafael raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t know, do you?” He shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Torres is in Los Lagos cartel. High up, too. Works for the boss’s number two man.”

Milo’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “Torres really is in a cartel?” The guards had said something about that, but he figured that was a lie to freak him out. Not something that could be real, not something that could be connected to the man who had become…whatever Torres was to him. “What do they do?” he asked weakly.

Rafael shrugged. “What do you think? They control territory, move goods from one place to another. And they don’t take kindly to anyone getting in their way.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “You know how Torres made a name for himself?”

Milo shook his head mutely.

“Well, the story goes that there was this rival cartel, the Zetas, trying to muscle in on Los Lagos territory. Torres was tasked with sending them a message. So he did.”

Rafael lowered his voice, his words taking on a conspiratorial tone. “He snuck into the Zetas stronghold, this heavily guarded compound, right? And he didn’t just take out one or two guys. No, he systematically eliminated every single Zeta in the place. Two dozen men, armed to the teeth, and Torres ghosted them all like some kind of fucking ninja.”

Milo’s eyes widened, a chill running down his spine. He tried to reconcile this image of Torres as a ruthless, efficient killer with the man who had held him at night, whose touch set his nerves on fire.

“But that’s not even the craziest part,” Rafael continued, his voice lowering. “Torres didn’t just leave the bodies for the Zetas to find. No, he fucking decapitated them, every last one, and arranged their heads in a pyramid right in the middle of the compound. Left a note pinned to the top, too. ‘Los Lagos sends their regards.’ Ice cold, man.”

Milo felt a wave of nausea wash over him, his stomach churning at the gruesome image. He’d known Torres was dangerous, but this…this was something else entirely. This was the kind of brutality he’d only ever seen in movies, the kind of violence he’d never imagined could be real.

He looked at Rafael, and saw the man was grinning. “That…that wasn’t true, was it?” Milo asked shakily.

Rafael chuckled, slapping Milo on the shoulder. “Dios mio, your fucking face! No, man. Torres isn’t some kind of legendary monster. But he’s a hard guy, and you shouldn’t fuck with him. Unless…” Rafael eyed Milo with a smirk. “Nah, I’m kidding. Listen.” He leaned in and said in a low voice, “I know he’s just pretending to bend you over at night so he’s got an excuse to take care of you. But you have to make sure people believe it. So just do whatever he tells you, okay?”

Milo shivered. Just pretending. Was that what was happening? Or was that just what Torres had told Rafael? It didn’t feel like pretending. Torres’s fingers around his balls had felt pretty real.

After that, Rafael made good on his offer to look out for Milo. He made space for Milo at the lunch table and forced the other Latinos to leave him alone as he ate. After, he nudged Milo with an elbow to get his attention. “Listen, kid. I pulled some strings, got you a work detail in the medical clinic. It’s for your own safety, you understand? No one can touch you there.”

Milo nodded, a lump forming in his throat. He understood all too well. Without Torres to watch over him, he was vulnerable. An easy target for Sinclair and his crew, or anyone else looking to make a name for themselves by breaking the new fish.

Rafael and a couple of the other Latinos walked Milo to the clinic, joking between themselves in rapid Spanish. Milo tuned it out. He could only understand the occasional word, anyway.

The clinic was small but well-equipped, most equipment locked away out of reach of inmates. The walls were a sterile white, the fluorescent lights above casting a harsh glare over everything. A stern-looking African American woman in dusky pink scrubs looked up from her desk, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight of them.

“Got you a new worker, Nurse Williams,” Rafael said easily. “This is Milo.”

Nurse Williams looked Milo up and down, her expression unreadable. “Very well,” she said, her voice clipped and businesslike. “Leave him with me.”

Rafael nodded, clapping Milo on the shoulder. “Don’t fuck this up.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving Milo alone with Nurse Williams. She gestured for him to come closer, and he obeyed.

Nurse Williams examined Milo’s bruised face, her brow furrowing as she took in the cut on his lip. “What happened to you?” she asked, her voice stern but not unkind.

Milo swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor. “The brawl in the cafeteria yesterday,” he said quietly. “I was in the middle of it.”

Nurse Williams raised an eyebrow. “You make a habit of getting into fights, Milo?”

Milo shook his head vehemently. “No, ma’am. But one of the guards, he…he hit me. When he was trying to break it up.”

Nurse Williams’s expression darkened, a flash of something like disapproval crossing her features. She didn’t say anything, but Milo got the sense that she didn’t approve. “Well, I can treat you. There are so few things I can do to help after a brawl like that. They send serious cases to the hospital wing,” she said by way of explanation. “I’m mostly here for first aid and flu shots.”

She set about treating Milo’s injuries, her hands gentle but efficient. Milo winced at the sting of the antiseptic, but he didn’t complain. It was a small price to pay for the relief of having someone take care of him, even if only for a moment.

When she was finished, Nurse Williams put Milo to work, showing him how to restock the supply cabinets and clean the examination tables. She was brusque in her instructions, but Milo could sense an underlying current of concern in her demeanor.

Milo threw himself into the tasks she assigned him, determined to prove himself worthy of her attention. He worked diligently, making sure every surface was spotless and every item was in its proper place. He wanted to please her, to show her that he was grateful for the small measure of protection she offered.

As the end of his shift approached, he found himself growing increasingly anxious. Without Torres to protect him, he knew he was unsafe. The thought of navigating the prison’s dangerous social landscape alone filled him with dread.

When the time came to leave, Milo was surprised to find one of the Latinos waiting for him outside the clinic. The man was tall and heavily muscled, with a shaved head and a fierce expression. He said nothing, simply jerked his head in summons. Milo swallowed nervously and fell into step beside him, finding his presence both intimidating and oddly reassuring.

When they reached the cafeteria, the man guided Milo towards the Latino table where a group were already gathered. Milo recognized some of them. They looked up as he approached, their expressions guarded and appraising.

Rafael, however, just gestured for them to make room, and they did. Milo was herded into the empty seat. He took it, hesitant. He could feel the weight of the other men’s gazes on him, their eyes boring into his skin.

They were talking amongst themselves in rapid-fire Spanish. Their rough language and raucous laughter made Milo nervous. He felt like an outsider, an interloper in their world. He kept his eyes fixed on the table in front of him, not daring to look up.

Dinner wasn’t awful. But Milo missed Torres’s presence. Despite the feeling of protection he got from the Latinos, it was impersonal. He dreaded going to his cell alone. He felt a wave of relief when Rafael walked him back.

“Someone will fetch you in the morning,” Rafael said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Don’t dawdle, okay?”

Milo nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He wanted to thank Rafael, to express his gratitude for the man’s unexpected kindness, but the words stuck in his throat. He settled for a jerky nod, his eyes fixed on the ground.

Rafael snorted, clapping Milo on the shoulder. “Get some rest, kid. You look like shit.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Milo alone in the cell. Milo stood there for a moment, his chest heavy. The cell felt empty without Torres’s presence, the silence oppressive.

Milo’s gaze fell on Torres’s bunk, the sheets still rumpled from two nights ago, when they had both slept there. Before he could think better of it, Milo found himself crossing the cell and climbing into Torres’s bunk.

He pulled the thin blanket up to his chin, burying his face in Torres’s pillow. The scent of the other man was still there, musk and sweat and soap that made Milo’s heart ache.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. For a moment, he could almost pretend that Torres was there with him, his strong arms wrapped around Milo’s waist, his breath warm against the back of Milo’s neck.

But the illusion was fleeting, and reality crashed back in with a vengeance. Torres was gone, locked away in solitary confinement, and Milo was alone in a world he didn’t understand, a world where violence and brutality were the norm.

Milo felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, hot and stinging. He blinked them away furiously, refusing to let them fall. He couldn’t afford to be weak, not here. Not if he wanted to survive.

He buried his face deeper into Torres’s pillow, inhaling the man’s scent like a drowning man gasping for air. It was a small comfort, but it was all he had. A reminder that, even in this hellish place, there was someone who would protect him. Even if that protection came at a price.