Chapter Two

Morning dawned like it did every day in prison, with a klaxon. Angelo Torres inhaled through his nose, keeping his eyes closed. A moment later, the inside of his eyelids bloomed red as the bright lights of the cell block came on.

He was used to this by now. Over a year of this had made it routine.

He pushed himself up and out of bed and stretched his arms above his head until his spine cracked. Those fucking beds. He’d never complain about the beds in the cartel barracks again.

Only two months left,he reminded himself. Then I’m going home.

Home was the compound that made up Los Lagos cartel headquarters. Angelo had been with the cartel since he’d left school, and in that time, he had established himself as a brutal enforcer and valued subordinate. He had seen his fair share of gunfights, high speed chases, and drug deals gone wrong. He’d done dark and bloody things for the cartel and its leader, the infamous Marcus Bautista Aguilar. And now, he was serving a prison term for them too.

He tried not to dwell on the reasons he was here. The past was something he couldn’t change, and it amounted to a job gone wrong, an arrest, and jail time. He’d been lucky to get such a short sentence and knew he had the cartel lawyers to thank for that. In the meantime, Angelo had made sure to cultivate a certain reputation within these walls. He didn’t start shit, but he sure as hell finished it. A few well-placed beatdowns in the yard, and the word spread quick—this was a man you didn’t want to fuck with.

Most of the guys here respected that. Gave him a wide berth. The white supremacists were a problem, but Angelo kept an eye on them. Way Angelo saw it, as long as they stayed in their lane, he’d stay in his.

The bunk behind him creaked, pulling Angelo from his thoughts. Time for another day of this shit. He frowned at the scrawny kid scrambling out of his bunk, eyes wide with fear. Jesucristo, he thought This kid is gonna die here.

The kid—Milo? Was that right?—was skinny, pale as milk with a mop of ash blond hair that fell past his shoulders. His face was pretty—too pretty for a man in this place. High cheekbones, full lips, long lashes that any girl would envy. Angelo felt a fleeting twinge in his gut, looking at the boy’s long-fingered, fluttering hands as he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk.

He curled his lip in disgust. The kid moved like a frightened animal, all skittish motions and wary glances. His voice was soft when he spoke, small and weak.

“Good morning.”

Angelo grunted in response. He was like a baby deer stumbling into a wolf’s den—all wide eyes and trembling limbs. If he didn’t toughen up soon, Angelo knew exactly what would happen.

Some of the assholes in here would take one look at that pretty face and slender frame and get ideas. Milo’s looks made him a prime target for the kind of man who got off on hurting pretty things. Angelo had seen it too many times—a guy like Milo getting passed around like a toy until there was nothing left of him.

Others would just want to rough him up for the hell of it. Guys got bored in here, and there was nothing like knocking a few of some twink’s teeth out to break up the monotony.

Angelo clenched his jaw as he studied his cellmate. He almost felt sorry for the kid. But if Milo wanted to survive in this place, he needed to start acting like a man.

“You better get your shit together,” Angelo warned him. The kid’s head jerked around to face him, his eyes going even wider as he stared at Angelo with naked fear. Angelo wanted to wipe that dumbass look off his face but he restrained himself. “Don’t look at me like that. You better toughen up fast. If you keep acting like a little bitch, you’re gonna get eaten alive.”

Milo looked down, his face reddening, and he didn’t respond.

Fine. Angelo wasn’t responsible for him. He could sink or swim on his own.

The cell door clanged open. Two guards stood in the hallway, one swinging a baton lazily.

“Torres. Mueller. Shower time. Let’s go.”

Angelo moved first, stepping out into the corridor. Cells lined both sides of the hallway, bars separating the confined men from the narrow walkway. Some were still in their bunks, some pushing ahead for first shot at the showers. Others milled about or crowded the doors to watch the procession.

A couple of Aryans glared at Angelo from one cell, their affiliation tats dark and ugly. Angelo stared back, impassive. They were mostly mouth, those idiots. All bark and no bite when it came to him. But he never turned his back on them. The lines in the prison were drawn around race, and Angelo knew only too well that all it would take was one shank in a dark corner and he wouldn’t be going home.

In contrast, the Hermanos in the next cell over regarded him with quiet respect. Angelo nodded slightly to the senior man, Rafael Medina. They had an understanding, him and Los Hermanos. His boss and their boss were allies, and so they were allies too.

He glanced back. Milo was being pulled from their cell. The guards had to yank him along when the kid froze in the doorway, eyes flicking back and forth like a cornered animal. Angelo watched as a few of the younger Hermanos leered openly at the pretty boy, licking their lips and hissing filthy suggestions his way.

Milo’s face went beet red, but he kept his head down, shoulders hunched. Smart kid, for once. Acknowledging those looks would only encourage them.

The guards prodded them onward, leading the line of prisoners down the catwalk to the shower block.

Angelo kept his eyes forward as they entered the communal showers, trying not to stare at the naked bodies around them. He was used to this by now—there was no privacy in prison. So he couldn’t help catching a glimpse of Milo in his peripheral vision as the kid stripped off his clothes.

Milo’s body was slim and hairless, his skin pale and unblemished. His shoulders were narrow, his arms and legs slender. Angelo watched a bead of water trail down the knobby ridge of Milo’s spine as he stepped under the spray, looking small and vulnerable surrounded by the hulking frames of the other inmates.

Angelo felt an unwanted twinge low in his gut as his eyes raked over the swell of Milo’s backside, the graceful curve of his neck. He swallowed hard and looked away, disgusted with himself. Too long without a woman, he told himself.

He wasn’t the only one looking. Angelo’s jaw clenched as he noticed a couple of Aryans giving Milo an appraising once-over, their lips curled in feral grins. He could read their thoughts plain as day on their leering faces. Fresh meat. And in a color they liked.

Angelo closed his eyes under the spray, feeling it sting his face, and tried not to think about how easily those bastards could overwhelm Milo. How they could hold him down, pry open those slender thighs and take whatever they wanted. Beat him senseless or worse if he struggled. Milo would break like a twig under their boots. The kid was too soft, too sheltered to last in this place if he didn’t man up soon. He’d get passed around the Aryans or beaten to death in some dark corner. Angelo couldn’t decide which one was the worse fate.

He tilted his head and opened his eyes to glare at the Aryans until they looked away. Yeah. Fuck off.

His jaw clenched as he watched Milo step out of the showers, the boy’s skin pink from the scalding water. The kid was trembling, his shoulders hunched and his head down as he tried to make himself as small as possible.

And no wonder. The catcalls and jeers from the other inmates were relentless, growing bolder and more graphic as the minutes ticked by. They called Milo every filthy name in the book, speculating loudly about what they’d like to do to him. How tight he’d be, how loud he’d scream.

One of the Aryans, a big bastard with a swastika tattooed on his chest, reached out to grab a handful of Milo’s ass as he passed by. The kid flinched away with a yelp, his face flaming red, as the Aryan and his buddies guffawed.

Rage surged through Angelo at the sight, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His instinct was to step in, but it would be reckless to do so. There were four of them and only three Latinos in the shower right now. Sure, in a fight the Latinos would win, but the guards would probably have to get involved and then there would be beatings and solitary, and in the end what made it Angelo’s problem anyway? Just because they were cellmates?

Milo needed to learn to stand up for himself. Angelo couldn’t always be there to protect him. If the kid didn’t grow a backbone soon, he’d be eaten alive in here. Angelo had seen it happen too many times before.

So he watched, his jaw tight, as Milo scurried out of the showers like a frightened rabbit. The boy was a walking target, all wide eyes and trembling limbs. He practically had “victim” stamped on his forehead.

Angelo followed him slowly, his mind churning. Milo was too soft for this place. Too weak. He’d have to toughen up, learn to fight his own battles. It was the only way he’d make it out of here in one piece.

Still, as he watched Milo hurry out of the changing room, his slender arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to hold himself together, he couldn’t help a twinge of pity for the kid.

This place would chew Milo up and spit him out. Waste of a pretty face.

It was time for breakfast. Angelo moved through the line in the prison cafeteria, his tray held out in front of him. A bored-looking inmate in a hairnet slopped a ladleful of runny scrambled eggs onto his plate, the sulfurous smell turning his stomach. Next came a spoonful of lumpy oatmeal, a single sausage link that looked more gray than brown, and a piece of stale white bread that had briefly been acquainted with a toaster and was unfortunately still limp.

He grabbed a bruised apple from the basket at the end of the line and made his way to his usual table, his lip curling in disgust. The food in this place was barely fit for human consumption. Everything was either overcooked or undercooked, bland and tasteless. It was all mass-produced slop, designed to be as cheap as possible while still technically meeting the nutritional requirements.

Angelo thought longingly of the breakfasts he used to have back home in Colombia. Fresh fruit, arepas with melted cheese and a side of chorizo. Strong black coffee, not the instant shit they served here. His mouth watered at the memory.

But those days were in the past. Now he was stuck eating this swill, courtesy of the for-profit prison system that cared more about its bottom line than the well-being of its inmates. They cut corners at every turn, from the threadbare sheets on the bunks to the caustic soap in the showers. It was all about maximizing profits, no matter the human cost.

As he settled into his seat, Angelo glanced across the room at Milo, who was sitting at a table near the guards, as if he thought they might protect him. The kid was picking at his food, his shoulders hunched and his head down. He looked like he was trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

Angelo shook his head slightly. Milo needed to toughen up, and fast. Showing weakness in a place like this was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to take advantage of the kid’s vulnerability.

“That boy is gonna get his ass kicked,” a voice said over his shoulder.

Angelo turned to see Rafael Medina sliding into the seat next to him, his tray clattering onto the table. Rafael was a lieutenant in Los Hermanos, and the closest thing Angelo had to a friend on the inside. The men of Los Hermanos and Los Lagos had formed an uneasy alliance, united by their shared language and culture in the face of the prison’s racial divisions, and the tentative alliance of their leaders.

“He’s not my problem,” Angelo said, stabbing at his rubbery eggs with his fork.

Rafael snorted. “Like hell he’s not. He’s your cellmate. That makes him your responsibility.”

Angelo glared at him, but he knew Rafael was right. In prison, your cellmate was your problem, whether you liked it or not. If Milo got into trouble, it would come back on Angelo too.

He sighed, glancing over at Milo again. The kid was staring down at his plate, his food untouched. Angelo could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled slightly as he gripped his fork.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he said finally, turning back to Rafael. “But he’s gotta learn to stand up for himself. I can’t be there to protect him all the time.”

Rafael nodded, shoveling a forkful of oatmeal into his mouth. “True. But we gotta look out for our own in here. The other Latinos, they’re counting on us to have their backs. Can’t let the Aryans think they can push us around.”

Angelo grunted in agreement. As the nominal leaders of their respective groups in Vanguard, he and Rafael had a responsibility to the other Latino inmates. They had to present a united front, using their influence to keep the peace and protect their own.

But Milo wasn’t one of them, so he didn’t really come under that protection. Just a white boy, Angelo thought. Why couldn’t they have put him in with a gringo?

It stuck in his throat, like the crappy eggs, a hard lump to swallow. He didn’t want to look after a white boy who didn’t have the sense to look out for himself. But he had an easy feeling that if he didn’t, no one would.