Page 77 of Brutal Husband

I get a glimpse of a vast, empty landscape with a heavy gray sky filled with scruffy grassland and scattered with snow. Then the shadow of a large, austere concrete building. A gate grinds open, and I’m dragged inside. Then through another gate andinto a dark, damp room where a man in a long gray coat sits behind a table.

I can’t keep track of how many people are around me. Some of them are holding AK-47s. Most of them look bored. They’re talking in a foreign language that sounds Eastern European or Russian, and I don’t understand a word of it.

I understand the kicks and shoves they give me. The jerks of their chin and the guttural sounds of their commands. They mean I don’t matter. They are in charge, and I’m at their mercy.

One of the men holding my arm lets go of me. He reaches inside his coat and passes a dirty printout to the man behind the desks, who unfolds and reads it.

“Luca Lombardi,” the man reads in a heavy accent.

“Nero Lombardi.” I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I still know my own name.

He peers at the paper. “It says Luca Lombardi.”

“That’s my brother, the piece of shit who sent me here. I’m Nero Lombardi. What is this place? A prison? I haven’t been tried or sentenced. I’m American. I shouldn’t be here.”

The man’s eyes widen mockingly. “Oh, the American shouldn’t be here.” He drops the paper on the table and slowly gets to his feet. His eyes are hard. His clenched fists look even harder. He pulls one arm back and slams his fist into my face.

Blood explodes in my mouth, and I fall to my knees.

“This place? This place is your fucking nightmare,” the man says, standing over me. “You are a prisoner here because we say you are, and because that piece of paper says you are. Not the fucking government or your constitution or a court. We own your fucking ass from now until the day you die.”

He continues talking, but not English, and the words are not directed at me. I’m seized under the arms and dragged to my feet. I’m taken into another room, where men with guns strip me of my clothes and throw some garments at me. I’m vaguelyaware that there are other people around me. Staring at me. I get dressed in the T-shirt and jumpsuit, holding on to the metal frame of something. It’s a bunk bed with a thin blanket and no pillow.

I’m tired, hungry, and in so much pain that I sink down onto the bottom bunk and pass out.

I’mjolted awake by a loud, obnoxious buzzing.

My head feels clearer, and as I sit up and look around, I see that I’m in a large cell with a row of metal bunk beds. Men are clambering out of bed, scratching their stomachs or rubbing their fingers sleepily through their hair. Hard-looking men with a lot of tattoos.

A few of them cast bored looks in my direction. Most of them ignore me. The few conversations I overhear are in another language. Not knowing what else to do, I follow the others through the open door and down a long, damp-smelling corridor. We enter a canteen area with trestle tables and the smell of cooked food. It’s not an enticing smell. I take a metal tray and line up with the others, and when it’s my turn, a ladleful of something off-white and lumpy is plopped onto my tray.

As I walk among the trestle tables, many of the men flash me hostile looks, so I keep my distance. One of the tables has a solitary figure, a man of about fifty with his jumpsuit knotted around his waist. I take the seat opposite and attempt to eat my breakfast—if that’s what it is. It’s not recognizable as food, and I can’t figure out if it’s oatmeal, grits, or something else. I tentatively try a mouthful.

“Fucking disgusting,” I say, and drop my spoon onto my tray with a clatter.

“There’s been worse,” the man opposite me says with a shrug.

I look up in surprise. “You speak English? Where are we?”

“Guess,” the man says unhelpfully, and goes on eating.

“I don’t have a fucking clue. Is this a prison?”

This place certainly looks like a prison. There are barred cells, long corridors, and heavy metal doors. I can easily tell the inmates from the guards. The inmates are wearing gray jumpsuits like mine, and the guards wear jeans and jackets and carry guns. I look at the back of another prisoner’s jumpsuit for the name of the prison, but it’s blank. It’s also strange that the guards aren’t wearing official uniforms.

The man shakes his head. “A government prison? No, friend. This is a private prison. You must have made someone angry. Someone with money, but they do not want you dead. They want you to suffer.”

I groan and rub my hand over my face. Luca, you cold, vindictive bastard. When I get my hands on my brother, the beating I gave Shields will look like a therapeutic massage.

If this isn’t a real prison, the security probably isn’t very good. Maybe I can escape. Looking around, I count the number of guards with machine guns. On my way in, I think I saw barbed wire, towers, and heard barking dogs.

“Any idea who sent you here?” the man asks.

“My twin brother.” I can’t see any way out of this place. As far as I can tell, it looks like a purpose-built prison, or a real prison that was abandoned.

He gives a low whistle. “Your brother? What did you do, fuck his wife?”

Anger flashes through me. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m up on my feet, and I’ve grabbed a fistful of the man’s grimy jumpsuit and I’m shaking him. “His wife?Hiswife?She’smy fucking wife.”

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