Alessandro Giordano:
I leaned my shoulders against the bars of the cell, my arms crossed over my chest. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies, a putrid mix of desperation and decay. Cheap. Filthy. Insulting.
I had agreed to come here, but that didn't mean I had to tolerate it. The rusted bars, the flickering overhead light, the distant murmurs of men who had long since lost their dignity—it was all beneath me. If I wanted to, I could be gone before the next shift change. But I wasn't here to break out. I was here for a deal.
The guards watched me like I was a caged animal, wary but too afraid to meet my eyes for long. They knew who I was. They knew what I could do. A few of them probably hoped I'd stay locked up, while others were already considering how much my enemies would pay for a favor.
Two guards in blue uniforms walked down the row toward me. One of them, a stocky man with a permanent scowl, stopped in front of my cell.
"Alessandro?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Warden wants to see you."
They cuffed me like I was some low-level thug and led me down the dimly lit corridor. I said nothing. Let them play their little game. I had no interest in reminding them who really held the leash here.
The office was small but well-kept—too clean for a place like this. A single wooden desk sat in the center, papers stacked neatly on top. Behind it, Warden Jackson leaned back in his chair, hands folded, a smug smile stretching across his face.
"And here we are," he said, like we were old friends catching up over drinks. "Didn't think you'd actually come for negotiations. That's brave."
The public saw Jackson as just another prison warden, but I knew better. He wasn't just running this prison—he was controlling the stakes of the underground from behind these walls. A different kind of king, ruling from a different kind of throne.
The only thing that could stop a gangster was a prison.
Unless, of course, the gangster owned the prison.
"We need to talk about Stefano," I say, my voice even, controlled.
Jackson smirks, leaning back in his chair like a man who thinks he owns the world—or at least this rotten piece of it.
"You didn't sit in this shithole for seven months just to talk about Stefano." He scoffs. "That kid's nothing. Chicken shit."
"He's not," I correct him, my tone sharpening. "He's got backing. And I'm guessing it's from someone right under you."
Jackson's smirk falters, just slightly. "That's not my business, Alessandro."
"It is." I lean forward, my forearms resting on the desk between us. "You run this place, Jackson. You keep the balance. But Stefano—he's making moves that are reckless. He's not just pushing product, he's cutting into the heroin routes we already secured. My routes. He's buying cops, customs officials, and even a few of your men to look the other way. If you don't stop him, this whole setup—the power you hold, the protection you think you have—won't mean shit when everything crumbles."
Jackson drums his fingers on the armrest, watching me, weighing my words.
Vladimir—my cousin, my second-in-command—told me it was a mistake to stay locked up in here for months just to get a seat at this table. But I trust my gut, and my gut tells me this deal is worth it.
Jackson exhales, his smirk gone.
"I see your point," he mutters. "Kid's getting too big for his britches, eh? It's a delicate ecosystem…"
"Then start treating him like a fucking infection," I say coldly. "You get a cut from every shipment that moves through this city. If Stefano keeps undercutting me, that cut gets thinner. He's making side deals with South Americans, bringing in raw product without going through our refineries. That means unregulated shipments, unpredictable quality. If someone dies from a bad batch, you know who the cops come after first?" I tap my chest. "Not Stefano. Me."
Jackson grunts, finally looking less amused.
"I want him cut off," I continue. "No protection, no deals. I don't care how many people he's got in his pocket, they'll drop him when they realize you're not backing him anymore. And when that happens, I'll clean up the rest."
Jackson raises an eyebrow. "And what do I get?"
I smirk now. "Your usual thirty percent, plus a piece of the new shipment coming in from Istanbul. Clean, pure, and exclusive. I'm bringing in more weight, and I'll need a safe point of entry. You make sure my shipments get processed without heat, and I make sure Stefano disappears."
Jackson studies me, and I can tell he's tempted.
"Seventy-thirty," he counters.
I chuckle. "Not a chance. Fifty-fifty for the first three runs. After that, you go back to your thirty."
Jackson leans back again, silent. I know he's doing the math in his head. He's thinking about the money, the power, and the risk.
Finally, he nods once. "You're a real bastard, Alessandro."
I smirk. "That's why we get along so well."
Jackson leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming idly against the desk before his gaze flicked to the calendar on the wall. A picturesque vineyard stretched across it, bathed in golden light. Familiar. Too familiar.
"You know," he mused, not looking at me, "I once had a bottle of wine from the Philippines. Smooth. Decent." He turned back, a smirk tugging at his lips. "But it left me dry. Made me crave something… stronger."
My eyes flicked to the calendar again. That vineyard wasn't just any vineyard. It was mine. A quiet message, loud and clear. Jackson had known exactly what I'd ask for the moment I stepped into this office. And he knew the price of cooperation.
"You wouldn't happen to know where a man could get a real drink, would you?" he asked, voice casual but edged with meaning.
I didn't hesitate. "France."
Jackson exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. "France." He rolled the word over his tongue as if tasting it. "Now, let's say I wanted to send something there. Something delicate. Something that shouldn't be… disturbed." His eyes sharpened. "What would they say about that?"
I met his gaze. "Depends on the hands delivering it."
Jackson's smirk widened. "And if I wanted those hands to stay clean?"
"Then you'd need someone who knows how to wash them."
A beat of silence stretched between us before he let out a low chuckle. "You always had a way with words, Giordano." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Fine. We have a deal."
A necessary conversation. A necessary risk.
I stepped forward, but a guard blocked my path. "You have a psychological assessment before returning to your cell."
I stilled.
Psychological assessment? What the hell was I supposed to do with that?
My jaw tightened, but I didn't argue. I'd played the waiting game long enough—what was one more step? Without a word, I followed them down the hall, my movements measured, unhurried.
When we reached the room, I spotted my lawyer inside, seated against the far wall. He didn't acknowledge me beyond a single tap to his watch. You'll be out in no time.
I gave him a subtle nod before turning toward the door.
It opened.
And I saw her.
Not some washed-up prison shrink. Not some state-assigned bureaucrat punching a clock.
A girl. No, not a girl—a woman. Early twenties, if that.
She was nervous. I could tell from the way she clutched the hem of her blazer, the subtle tremor in her fingers. The way she bit her lip—soft, unaware, a habit she probably didn't realize she had.
Pure. Uncertain. Eager to prove herself.
She didn't belong here. And she knew it.
For a moment, she just stood there, shifting slightly, as if second-guessing her presence. Then, she cleared her throat. "Uhm…" Her voice wavered as she smoothed her blazer, a poor attempt to regain composure.
It didn't help. If anything, it only made her look smaller.
I let my gaze drag over her slowly, taking my time.
Finally, she spoke. "My name is Camila Rodrigo." There was hesitation, the barest hint of doubt—like she wasn't entirely sure of her own name.
Perfect.
I clenched my jaw, resisting the smirk threatening to form.
The feral part of me—the part that had been caged for seven months—wondered how easily that hesitation could be turned into something else. Something darker.
Leaning forward, I let the silence stretch just long enough to make her squirm. Then, my voice, slow and smooth, filled the space between us.
"Hello, Camila." I let her name roll off my tongue, tasting it. Then I tilted my head slightly, my eyes locked onto hers.
"What a pleasure to meet you."
I settled into the chair, unhurried, relaxed. "Where do we begin?"