Chapter Four

The interview rooms at Vanguard Penitentiary were painted in a sickly institutional green, a familiar backdrop to life there. Angelo sat across from his lawyer, Isabeta Carter, in the dingy prison interview room. A single flickering fluorescent light illuminated the metal table bolted to the floor between them.

Isabeta was a coldly beautiful woman in a sharp burgundy business suit that did little to disguise her lush curves. Her raven hair was pulled back into a severe bun, accentuating her high cheekbones and piercing dark eyes.

She regarded Angelo with professional detachment. “You need to stay out of trouble,” she reminded him, her voice crisp and firm. “Any infractions, any additional charges, could jeopardize your chances of getting out on good behavior.” She held herself with poise, her manicured hands steady on her paperwork. “I know the environment here is dangerous, but you’re so close to being released. Don’t let them drag you back down.”

Angelo lifted his chin, contempt in the line of his mouth. Isabeta’s words washed over him, a familiar refrain he’d heard countless times before. He leaned back in his chair, the metal creaking under his weight.

So close to release. It would happen soon. But how soon was ‘soon’? Time passed strangely in prison, each day bleeding into the next in an endless cycle of monotony and violence. She had no idea what that life was like.

“I’ll do what I have to do to survive,” Angelo said, his voice low and gravelly. “You just focus on getting me out and let me worry about the rest.”

“I’m doing my best,” she said crispy. “See that you do the same.” Her red-painted mouth pursed prettily, and Angelo felt a familiar jolt of attraction.

His eyes lingered on her cleavage, imagining what she would look like naked. He pictured her reclined on the table, her suit discarded on the floor, body clad only in a lacy black bra and matching panties. He imagined running his hands over her smooth, caramel skin, feeling the weight of her breasts in his palms, and the curve of her hips beneath his fingers.

He wondered what she would taste like, what it would be like to bury his face between her thighs and lose himself in her wet folds. He imagined the sounds she would make, the way she would writhe and moan beneath him as he brought her to the brink of ecstasy.

His gaze drifted lower, to the curve of Isabeta’s hips, the way the fabric of her skirt clung to her thighs. He felt a stirring in his pants, a familiar ache that he’d long grown used to ignoring.

He remembered the women he’d bedded before his incarceration, the way they’d writhed and moaned beneath him, their nails digging into his skin as he drove into them again and again. He’d always been a man who appreciated the female form, who reveled in the power and pleasure of sex. Hot blooded women had been his favorite, the kind who might throw a plate at your head as soon as kiss you. Was Isabeta that type? She didn’t seem it. But he wondered what it would be like to shatter her icy facade, to see her lose control beneath him, her body writhing and trembling as she came apart. He pictured her begging for more, her eyes wide and pleading as he drove into her, as he claimed her body with his own.

“Torres,” Isabeta’s said sharply. “Are you listening to me?”

He leaned forward, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Come on, Isabeta. Don’t you have a smile for me? I’m a lonely man.”

Isabeta’s expression remained impassive, her dark eyes fixed on the papers in front of her. “I’m your lawyer, not your girlfriend.” She shuffled the documents, her long fingers precise and efficient. “Focus on your case. Is there anything that could potentially jeopardize your release? Any incidents or altercations I should be aware of?”

Angelo’s thoughts drifted to Milo, the pretty boy who had become his cellmate. The kid was a walking target, too soft and naive for the brutal realities of Vanguard. Angelo had already stepped in once to save him from Sinclair’s goons, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Milo found himself in trouble again. It was nothing, but still.

“I had a little chat with some of the Aryan boys the other day,” Angelo said casually, leaning back in his chair. “Just making sure they understand the lay of the land, you know?”

Isabeta’s gaze snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “Getting into it with white supremacists is the last thing you need right now.”

Angelo held up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I know how to handle myself. Besides, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

Isabeta sighed, her frustration evident. “Be careful, Torres. Don’t give them any reason to deny your release.”

“You know,” Angelo said in a low tone, “you’re even more beautiful when you’re worried about me.”

Isabeta ignored this, almost as if he hadn’t spoken. Angelo smirked to himself. The woman was an ice princess, alright. But that only made the challenge of melting her all the more enticing.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said easily. “I’ll be Angelo the angel from now on.”

Isabeta leveled him with an unamused stare, clearly unimpressed. “That’s all I ask. Stay out of trouble until your release date.”

With a casual shrug, Angelo leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze roam over Isabeta’s figure, and the elegant curve of her neck. “When I’m finally a free man again, maybe I’ll look you up. Take you out, show you a good time.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Isabeta didn’t miss a beat, her expression impassive. “I’m sure you’ll find adequate companionship without my help.” She gathered her papers with crisp efficiency, her movements precise and unhurried.

Angelo admired her composure, her unflappability. There was something undeniably alluring about a woman who refused to be charmed or flustered. A delicious challenge to be savored.

“Suit yourself,” he said, holding her gaze. “But just remember, you’re the one missing out.”

“I’ll see you in a week, Torres,” she said, giving no ground, offering him no mercy.

He liked her. Beyond the possibility of fucking her (or rather, the impossibility), he liked her drive. If anyone could get him out of this prison it was her.

And in the meantime, he just had to stay out of trouble.

***

Milo kept his head down, trying to blend into the surroundings as much as someone like him could in a place like Vanguard Penitentiary. The prison yard bustled with activity, a cacophony of shouts, laughter and the occasional whistle from a guard. He stuck to the fringes, observing the different groups and their territories.

The Aryans congregated near the basketball court, their pale, tattooed flesh on display as they postured. The Latinos claimed ownership of the weight pit, grunting as they lifted and strutted with a machismo Milo could never comprehend. He didn’t see Torres anywhere, which was both a relief and a concern.

Two men Milo didn’t know stood near the fence, deep in an argument. Milo wasn’t trying to listen in, but he couldn’t help hearing the way their voices escalated.

“That’s my fucking cousin you’re talking about,” one of them spat, fists clenched.

The other sneered. “She’s a bitch, man, what can I tell you? A dumb sl—”

His words were cut off as the first man’s fist collided with his jaw. The crack echoed across the yard as they tumbled to the ground, a tangle of fists and bodies.

Milo jerked back with a gasp. Other men looked over, and a small crowd began to gather, cheering the men on. That was until one of the onlookers tried to intervene. Another man grabbed him, someone threw a punch, and within seconds, the fight exploded into a full-blown brawl. Milo shrank back against the chain-link fence, terror paralyzing him as inmates poured in from all sides.

A hulking form bulldozed past Milo, slamming him against the fence. His world spun as he crumpled to the ground, struggling to suck in a breath as the chaos swirled around him.

Blood splattered the dirt as a shank flashed in the sunlight. A man screamed, clutching his slashed face. Another convict smashed his opponent’s skull into the ground with a sickening crunch.

Milo felt bile rise in his throat. He had never seen such brutality before. Growing up as he had, violence was something that happened in movies or on the news, not right in front of him.

The yard was a seething mass of violence, with no safe harbor in sight. Milo’s breaths came quick and shallow, and he felt like he might pass out from sheer terror.

A body slammed into the ground mere feet away, making Milo jump. The metallic scent of blood assaulted his nostrils, and he fought the urge to vomit. He had to get away, had to hide before he became the next victim.

He spotted a table nearby, with legs embedded in the concrete. Crouching low, he scurried towards it, trying to make himself as small a target as possible.

Just as he reached the table, a foot sailed past his head, narrowly missing him. Milo let out an undignified yelp and dove beneath the table, crawling on his hands and knees. He pressed himself against the cool concrete, trying to make himself invisible. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that the table would shield him from the brutality raging all around.

He had never felt so terrified and alone in his entire life. He wondered how he was going to survive a week in this place, let alone years. The ugly reality of his new life crashed over him, and hot tears stung his eyes.

The shouts and grunts of the fighting inmates were cut through by the sharp blasts of the guards’ whistles. Heavy boots pounded the ground, drawing closer to Milo’s hiding spot.

“Break it up! On the ground, now!” a guard bellowed.

Milo peeked out from beneath the table, watching as the guards waded into the fray, wielding batons and pepper spray. They roughly grabbed inmates, slamming them to the ground and wrenching their arms behind their backs.

Suddenly, Milo was dragged out from under the table by rough hands. “On your feet!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Milo protested.

The guard that had hold of him looked disgusted. “Get back to your cell,” he snarled, and Milo leaped to obey.

The yard was a mess of overturned tables and benches, with splatters of blood staining the concrete. Milo wrapped his arms around himself, feeling more vulnerable than ever. This place was a powder keg, ready to explode at any moment. How was he supposed to survive in a world where violence could erupt so suddenly and brutally?

Torres’s words echoed in his mind. Milo needed protection, someone to watch his back in this unforgiving place. And as much as it galled him to admit it, Torres was his best bet.

But how could he convince Torres to take care of him? What could he possibly offer someone like Torres?

But he already knew the answer to that.

That night, Milo could barely look Torres in the eye as they settled into their cell. The memory of the brawl replayed in his mind on a sickening loop. He kept seeing flashes of bloodied faces, mouths open on screamed insults, the guards brutal batons dark in the afternoon sun.

Torres seemed utterly unfazed, whistling to himself as he neatly arranged his few possessions on the narrow shelf. Milo envied how at ease he appeared.

“I missed the party out there today,” Torres remarked, his deep voice laced with amusement. He shot Milo a sidelong glance. “Looks like you avoided the worst of it. Lucky you didn’t get your teeth knocked out.”

Milo swallowed hard, giving a jerky nod. “Y-yeah. Lucky.”

Torres studied him for a long moment, those dark eyes seeming to bore right through Milo’s soul. Milo squirmed under the intensity of that stare.

“I told you, princesa,” Torres said at last, his voice low. “This place’ll chew you up and spit you out if you don’t grow a pair real quick.”

Milo’s knew Torres was right. The brawl had proven just how dangerous the prison truly was. One wrong look, one misplaced word, and he could find himself at the mercy of those animals.

His gaze dropped to the cold concrete floor. “You were right,” he admitted in a small voice. “I…I need protection.” He forced himself to meet Torres’s eyes, feeling utterly pathetic. “Will you protect me?”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Milo knew full well what he was asking, what it would likely cost him. But he was desperate, terrified of suffering a brutal fate far worse than merely having his teeth knocked out.

Torres studied him a moment longer, his expression unreadable. At last, he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slowly. “Dios mio, you really are as soft as they come, aren’t you?”

Milo’s heart hammered as Torres studied him, those dark eyes glinting with a dangerous amusement. Torres leaned back against the wall, crossing his muscular arms over his chest.

“So,” Torres drawled, his deep voice sending a shiver down Milo’s spine. “Are you offering to be my bitch? You’ll do whatever I ask, whenever I ask it?”

Milo’s mouth was dry. What exactly would Torres demand of him? His mind raced with possibilities, each more humiliating than the last. Would Torres make him clean his cell, do his chores, fetch his dinner? Or would Milo have to earn his safety on his knees?

Despite himself, Milo felt a flicker of heat in his belly at the thought. He pushed it down, ashamed of his body’s reaction. But he couldn’t deny the tiny thrill that raced through him at the idea of being at Torres’s mercy.

“Y-yes,” Milo managed to choke out, his face flushing hot. “I’ll be your bitch. I’ll do whatever you want. Just…please. Protect me.”

Torres threw his head back and laughed, the sound harsh and mocking in the small cell. Milo’s cheeks burned with humiliation. He felt so pathetic, so weak, begging for the scraps of Torres’s protection.

“Alright, putita,” Torres said at last, his lips curled in a smirk. “You’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll keep you safe from the other wolves in this place.” He leaned in close, his breath hot against Milo’s ear. “But don’t forget—you belong to me now. You’re my bitch, and you’d best remember it.”

Milo swallowed hard, his heart racing at Torres’s proximity. He could smell the musk of Torres’s skin, feel the heat radiating off his powerful body. “I understand,” he said, unable to meet Torres’s intense gaze.

Torres chuckled, low and dark. “Good. Let’s make sure you do.”