Page 53 of Nowhere to Run

I walked into the cell after lunch to find him lounging on his bunk, holding it between two fingers, turning it over like it was a playing card.

“Give it back,” I growled, my teeth clenched.

“Pretty boy like you can’t get a real picture from a girl?” he snorted. “Who is this? Your high school crush?” he pulled his legs to his chest, laughing like he’d just heard the funniest joke of his life.

I forced my face blank. “She’s no one.”

Malik shook his head, slow and deliberate, before unfolding himself from the bunk. At full height, he towered over me. Six-seven, maybe more. All solid muscle.

“I don’t think so, brother.”

He tossed the picture, and I caught it midair, my heart hammering as I pulled it close.

“She looks like someone pretty important. Or you wouldn’t be holding her picture to your chest,” Malik sneered.

I exhaled slowly, loosening my grip on the photo.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Malik smirked. “When you get out of here, I got a job for you.” He let the words settle before continuing. “I told you I got connections. Victor Santoro, I used to work for him.”

I raised a brow. “That name supposed to mean something to me?”

“Thought you were into fine art, brother. You’re telling me you’ve never heard of the guy who controls the underground art trade? Moves paintings in from overseas, delivers them to the wealthiest clients in the country?”

My eyes narrowed. I’d never heard of Victor Santoro. My interest in art had always been personal. But I was intrigued. A world I hadn’t considered stepping into.

Still… It was another favor I’d owe Malik one day.

I kept my voice careful. “And what did you tell him about me?”

Malik smirked. “I said you’re a big guy. Not afraid to throw a punch when needed, but smart enough not to lose your temper. When I mentioned you had an eye for art, that perked up his ear.”

I nodded slowly. Working in the art world would bring me closer to her.

Malik leaned against the wall, watching me like he’d already figured me out. “He needs someone to work the clients. Build trust, make them comfortable. And when the time comes—convince them the art is worth whatever price he’s setting.”

I understood. Not just a delivery guy. Sales. Persuasion.

“So, you in?”

I hesitated. “I’m… interested.” Then, “What do you want?”

“Me? Nothing.” He laughed, like the idea was ridiculous. “Just don’t forget about me once you’re outta here. Now that I done two favors for you.”

“Of course,” I muttered. A lie. I had no plans of keeping in touch.

Malik sighed, shaking his head. “I won’t be getting outta here any time soon, brother. But you–you’re almost at the end of your sentence. Go get that money. Get the girl.”

I stilled.

Since when did Malik give a shit about me having a future?

Then, as if reading my thoughts, he exhaled slowly. “Course… if I do get out early, I might need a favor of my own.”

The room went ice-cold.

Every muscle in my body locked, a tension so sharp it almost cut.

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