Chapter Twelve

Solitary confinement was the most boring place in the world. Worse than waiting in line for some government registration, or at a platform for some train that never came. Worse than a boring class in school. Worse than a hospital waiting room, though of course in a waiting room there was a chance you might also be bleeding, which did add some spice.

Angelo lay on the hard cot in his isolation cell, staring up at the gray concrete ceiling. His stomach growled, a hollow reminder of the slop they called food in this shithole. He closed his eyes, letting his mind conjure a real meal, something worth looking forward to.

He imagined sitting at a small table in Cartagena, the warm breeze carrying the scent of the sea. Before him, a plate of bandeja paisa—perfectly grilled carne asada with a squeeze of lime, crispy chicharrones that crackled as he crunched them down, savory rice and tender beans. All topped with a fried egg, its yolk oozing over the meat as he cut into it.

His mouth watered at the thought, and he could almost taste the freshness of the avocado and the tang of hogao. Angelo’s stomach rumbled again, more insistently this time.

Next, he pictured a steaming bowl of ajiaco. Chunks of tender chicken and soft potatoes in rich broth flavored with guascas. He imagined the warmth of the soup spreading through his body, the comfort of a home-cooked meal in every spoonful.

For dessert, perhaps the sweet indulgence of brevas con arequipe. Ripe figs, their flesh soft and yielding, drizzled with decadent caramel. The perfect balance of fruity and creamy, a taste of pure bliss. God, what he’d give for that. Just tell me who I have to kill, he thought ruefully. If only it were that easy to get out of prison. He’d have been gone long ago.

The sound of a key in the lock interrupted him. Angelo looked up as the cell door clanged open, the sound echoing off the walls. Two guards stood in the doorway, their expressions stern and unforgiving.

“On your feet, loser,” the taller of the two barked, his hand resting on the baton at his hip. “You’ve got a visitor.”

Angelo rose slowly, stretching his muscles as he stepped towards the guards. They flanked him on either side, bristling with bravado and fake confidence once they had him in wrist and ankle cuffs. So brave, he thought, amused.

As they walked down the corridor, the shorter guard leaned in close, his breath hot against Angelo’s ear. “You better watch yourself, Torres. Pull another stunt like that, and you’ll be right back here in the hole.”

Angelo remained silent, his eyes fixed ahead. The guard’s words washed over him, empty threats that held no weight. In his mind, he saw himself turning on the guards, his hands wrapping around their throats, squeezing until the life drained from their eyes. He imagined the satisfying crack of bone, the gurgle of their final breaths. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The taller guard noticed the smirk and grabbed Angelo by the shoulder, spinning him around. “You think this is funny, you piece of shit? You won’t be smiling when you’re bleeding out on the floor of your cell. You may be hot shit in your little gang, but in here, you’re just another number.”

Angelo met the guard’s gaze, his eyes cold and unblinking. He smiled, a humorless twist of his lips. “Thank you for the warning, officer,” he said, his voice dripping with mock politeness. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

The guard’s face reddened, his grip tightening on Angelo’s shoulder. For a moment, Angelo thought the man might strike him, but instead, the guard shoved him forward, propelling him down the corridor.

He was shown into a very familiar windowless room and shackled to a chair. After an interminable wait, the door opened, and his lawyer walked in.

She looked furious, but in her cool, reserved way, she waited until the door was shut and she had sat down before tearing into him.

“What were you thinking, Torres?” Isabeta demanded, her voice cutting through the stale air. “Getting involved in a brawl, risking your release date? Do you have any idea how much work I’ve put into your case?”

Angelo leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on a point just over Isabeta’s shoulder. “It was unavoidable,” he said, his tone flat and unapologetic. “I had no choice.”

Isabeta’s eyes narrowed, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the table. “No choice? You always have a choice, Angelo. You could have walked away, kept your head down. But instead, you chose to throw yourself into the middle of a fight. Why?”

Angelo’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He met Isabeta’s gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Someone was threatening a tiny little innocent child,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I had to act.”

Isabeta’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “A child? What are you talking about?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Angelo’s mouth. “Not a real child,” he clarified, “Just a little princesa who needed protecting.”

Isabeta’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Torres,” she said, her voice cold and unforgiving. “Your job right now is to keep yourself out of trouble. If some ‘little princesa’ can’t take care of themselves, that’s not your problem. You need to focus on your own survival, on getting out of here in one piece. Do you understand?”

Angelo chuckled, a low, humorless sound that echoed in the small room. “I understand perfectly, Ms. Carter,” he said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “Next time, I’ll let the tiny innocent child fend for itself. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you with my heroics.”

Isabeta’s eyes flashed with anger, but she remained composed, her voice level and controlled. “I’m glad we understand each other. Now, let’s focus on what we need to do to keep you on track for release. No more playing the hero. Just keep your head down and do your time.”

She had more to say, but he tuned her out. She was looking particularly beautiful today—her anger suited her. He dipped into a familiar fantasy of putting that passion to better use. But now, as he studied her, he realized that the spark of desire he once felt had dimmed.

He tried to imagine taking her, lifting her onto the table and hiking up that tight skirt. He pictured his hands roaming over her smooth, tanned skin, cupping her full breasts and squeezing until she moaned. But the fantasy felt hollow, lacking the heat and urgency that used to consume him.

Instead, his thoughts drifted to a different image. Soft, pale skin. The flat planes of a heaving chest, and narrow, angular hips.

Angelo shifted in his seat, his brow furrowing as he tried to push the unexpected thoughts aside. With a beautiful woman in front of him, he had no need to think of Milo.

But the thought of pushing his cock into Isabeta’s mouth did nothing for him. No, it was that the fantasy was revealed as simply a fantasy. She would never want that from him, would never go to her knees for him. But Milo…yes, he would. Angelo felt it in him, could see it now. And he wanted it too. Damn it, what was wrong with him?

He forced himself to focus on Isabeta once more, trying to summon the old feelings of lust and attraction. But they remained frustratingly out of reach, replaced by a new, unfamiliar hunger. He shifted in his seat, his body reacting to the thoughts in a way that was both confusing and undeniable.

Isabeta sighed, her frustration evident. “Are you even listening to me, Torres?”

He blinked, forcing himself to focus on her. “Yeah, I hear you. Keep my shit together, stay out of trouble. Got it.”

She studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “I mean it. My time is expensive, and I don’t appreciate having it wasted. If you can’t take this seriously, then perhaps I should reconsider representing you.”

Angelo grunted, his jaw clenching. “I understand, Ms. Carter. It won’t happen again.”

Isabeta nodded, gathering her papers. “See that it doesn’t. I’ll be in touch.”

She left. Angelo watched her ass as she went, and wondered if he was losing his mind.

The guards brought him out of the room and released him from the cuffs, before walking him back towards his cell in the general population. Other inmates called out to him, some in greeting, others in challenge. Angelo nodded to his allies, ignoring the taunts of his enemies.

As he rounded a corner, he caught sight of Sinclair leaning against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Angelo’s hands clenched into fists, the desire to wipe the smug look off Sinclair’s face nearly overwhelming.

He reminded himself of Isabeta’s warnings, but the thought of Sinclair threatening Milo, of what might happen to the kid once Angelo was released, made his blood boil. He ground his teeth, his resolve hardening.

Sinclair was a threat, not just to Milo or the Latinos, but to the entire non-white population in the prison. Angelo knew that he had to deal with the man, regardless of the consequences. He couldn’t leave Milo vulnerable, couldn’t abandon his people to the whims of a racist psychopath.

As he stepped into his cell, he found Milo perched on his bunk—Angelo’s bunk. The sight caught Angelo off guard, and he paused in the doorway, taking in the unexpected scene.

The cell was pristine. Milo had been keeping it perfectly clean. All Angelo’s belongings were lined up exactly where they were supposed to be. The only thing that wasn’t tidy was Angelo’s bed. Clearly, Milo had been sleeping in it.

Milo practically leapt to his feet, a smile spreading across his face. “Torres! You’re back!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. “How are you feeling? Was solitary terrible?”

Angelo blinked, surprised by the warmth of Milo’s welcome. He had expected his cellmate to be wary, perhaps even resentful. Frightened, certainly. But instead, Milo seemed genuinely relieved to see him, his eyes shining with an emotion that Angelo couldn’t quite place.

As he stepped further into the cell, Angelo felt a sudden wave of desire wash over him. It started in his gut, a hot, twisting sensation that spread through his body like wildfire. His heart began to race, his palms growing damp as he struggled to maintain his composure.

He couldn’t understand it. Milo was just a skinny, pale kid, nothing like the voluptuous women Angelo usually craved. But there was something about the way Milo looked at him, the pure, unguarded admiration in his eyes, that set Angelo’s blood on fire.

Milo took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Angelo’s face. “I was worried about you,” he said softly. “I missed you.”

Angelo smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement as he took in Milo’s flustered appearance. He was blushing, his pale cheeks stained with pink. His ash blond hair fell softly across his forehead, framing his wide, expressive eyes. Those eyes, with their long, dark lashes, seemed to draw Angelo in, begging something from him.

There was something about Milo’s vulnerability, his obvious need for protection, that stirred a primal instinct within Angelo. He wanted to shield Milo from the harsh realities of prison life, to keep him safe from the predators that lurked around every corner. But more than that, he found himself drawn to Milo’s submissive nature, the way he seemed to naturally defer to Angelo’s authority.

“Missed me, huh?” Angelo teased, his voice low and rumbling. “I didn’t realize you cared so much, princesa.”

Milo’s blush deepened, and he ducked his head, avoiding Angelo’s gaze. “I-I was just worried,” he stammered, his voice trembling slightly. “I thought maybe you got hurt in the fight. And…and I need you to protect me in here. That’s all.”

Angelo shook his head. “Is that so? Well, don’t you worry your pretty little head about me. I can take care of myself just fine.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against Milo’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin.

Milo shivered under the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment. When he opened them again, Angelo could see the gratitude shining in their depths, mixed with something that might have been admiration.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Milo said hesitantly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Angelo studied Milo for a moment, taking in the way he seemed to glow with gratitude and relief. It was a heady feeling, knowing that Milo relied on him so completely, that he looked to Angelo for protection and guidance.

“So,” Angelo said, his voice casual as he leaned against the wall of the cell, “did anyone give you shit while I was in the hole? Any problems I should know about?”

Milo shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No, everything was fine. Rafael and the others, they’ve been looking out for me. Making sure I get to the clinic and back safely, stuff like that. Oh,” he added, looking up nervously. “Rafael got me a work detail in the clinic. You know, to um. Keep me safe.”

Angelo nodded, a sense of satisfaction washing over him. It was good to know that his people had stepped up in his absence, that they had taken care of what was his. Because Milo was his now, there was no denying that. The thought sent a thrill through him, a possessive surge that he couldn’t quite explain.

“Is that so?” Angelo said, his tone teasing. “Sounds like you don’t need me anymore. Maybe you’d rather be Rafael’s bitch instead of mine, huh?”

Milo’s eyes widened, a look of panic flashing across his face. “No!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. I don’t want to be anyone else’s…I mean, I’m grateful for their help, but I know it’s only because of you. Because I’m yours.”

The last word hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Angelo felt a rush of heat surge through him, a primal satisfaction at hearing Milo acknowledge his claim so openly.

Angelo stepped closer, his eyes locked on Milo’s. “So you don’t want to be Rafael’s bitch, huh? Does that mean you still want to be mine?”

Milo’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, his gaze dropping to the floor. He fidgeted nervously, his hands twisting together in front of him. “I…yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I want to be yours, sir.”

A surge of satisfaction coursed through Angelo at Milo’s admission. He reached out, tilting Milo’s chin up with his finger, forcing the younger man to meet his gaze. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You’re mine, princesa. Don’t you forget it.”

Milo nodded, his eyes wide and shining with a mix of fear and something else, something that made Angelo’s blood run hot.

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over Milo’s ear. “Since you’re so happy to see me, why don’t you show me some gratitude later tonight?”

Milo shivered, his body trembling under Angelo’s touch. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Okay,” he said.

It felt good. Angelo loved seeing Milo like this, all flustered and submissive, ready to do whatever he asked. It was a heady feeling, knowing that he had such an effect on Milo.

He stepped back, his gaze raking over Milo’s body, taking in every inch of him. “Good boy,” he said with satisfaction. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”