Page 8 of Savage Redemption

He regards me through narrowed eyes. “How do you know what he wants?’

“We talk.”

“How cosy. Over a glass of my fine brandy, late at night?”

“Not exactly.” But close. I do spend time down there with him, and I have been known to take a bottle of the decent stuff with me. It pays to know your enemy.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Some. Yes.”

“And San Antonio? Has he been giving it some thought, too?”

“We’ve discussed it, yes. It was his idea.”

“I bet it was.”

“I believe him. I think we can trust him.”

“Well, I don’t.” He gets back to his feet. “No, it’s not happening. We stick with options one and two. My preference is for one. Get it done, Baz. Nice and tidy.”

I shake my head. “Boss, before we do anything we can’t come back from, at least talk to him yourself. Listen to what he has to say. If you don’t trust him, try trusting me.”

“You know I trust you. Absolutely.”

“Well, then?” Now I’m also on my feet. “A few minutes. Hear him out.”

“For fuck’s sake. All right, but no longer. And no promises. If it comes to it, we do what’s necessary. Agreed?”

“Agreed, boss. When do you want?—?”

“Why not now? Get it over with.”

Adan San Antonio

Drip,drip, drip.

I glare at the far wall and wish I could actually see what’s making that noise. The concrete is damp, but no running water, exactly. I get to my feet, pace the cramped, Spartan cell. Three paces in one direction, four in the other. Apart from the narrow bunk built into one wall, the only other furniture is a rickety table and a single chair, and even those are a concession from Baz Bartosz. The sanitation consists of a bucket, which is mercifully emptied twice a day. I’m provided with decent food and warm drinks, and there’s a laundry service of sorts. It amounts to a change of clothes and bedding every few days.

Baz provided me with a heater last winter, one of those paraffin ones they use for camping. There’s no electricity, apart from one lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, but Bartosz had someone come down here and rig up a way I could switch it on and off.

As prisons go, it could be worse. Much worse.

Most inhabitants of this accommodation don’t stay here for long.

It’s the isolation that gets to me most. At first, I spent days on end with no human contact apart from a surly medic who came to dress my injured leg. But a bullet in the knee requires more than a few bandages. I was in agony, not able to drag myself from the bunk, until Bartosz decided to let me have proper medical attention. I was transferred to some sort of secure medical facility, where they removed the bullet and made some attempt to repair my shattered knee before shipping me back down here.

It was less painful after that, but still it was weeks before I could put any weight on it at all. I managed to come up with my own physiotherapy regime, exercising daily and gradually becoming more and more mobile by sheer grit and determination. Even now, I need a crutch to do more than half a dozen steps, but I get by.

The isolation eased somewhat when my jailor started to visit me. Baz Bartosz is decent company, and we spend evenings together sometimes. I gather his wife and daughter have recovered from their ordeal at my hands, and I’m glad of it. My quarrel was never with them, though it took me a while to become reconciled with Baz himself. He’s the underboss for my enemy, Kristin Kaminski, the man who annihilated by family and seized control of these islands.

Kaminski had to die. My remaining family expected that of me. As Don, it was the least I could do, avenge the deaths and take back what’s ours. I was new in the position; I had everything to prove.

My first attempt failed, but I’d have tried again. And again. Kaminski should have killed me that day at the cottage. I’m still not sure why he didn’t, why he settled for a bullet through my knee.

I wasn’t surprised when my cousin, Marco, refused to pay the ransom. He never forgave me for seizing the leadership whenold Carlos died. Marco fancied himself as Don and challenged me for the role, even though I was next in line. It was my right, and I fought for it. I came out the victor, and the rest swore allegiance to me. But Marco resented my position, never really accepted me. Along with everyone else, the senior ranks and the foot soldiers alike, he swore allegiance to me, the slimy little arsewipe. But it meant nothing. First chance he got, he slithered into my place, claiming the position he’d always coveted, and left me to rot.

At first, I was seething, determined to get my position back, my birthright. But as weeks went by, then months, my perception shifted. It’s not that I don’t hate Marco. I do, and if and when the opportunity arises, Iwillend him. But I don’t want to be Don anymore. I never did, if I’m honest with myself. It was expected. Men like me crave power. We’re born to it. It was in my DNA, or so I thought, and I was ready to crush any opposition as I fought for what was rightfully mine.

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