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🛑 NEVER JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER! A ruthless prison thug thought he found an easy target in the quiet new inmate. He had NO IDEA he just punched the most feared Mafia Boss in history—who entered the prison BY CHOICE. Click to read the insane ending! 😱👇 #Drama #Suspense #PlotTwist #MustRead / Chapter 2 / 6

Chapter 2 - The Currency of Blood

The next morning, the prison yard was suffocatingly hot. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and exhaust from the nearby highway.

Deacon Briggs sat on the concrete bleachers, surrounded by his inner circle—four towering men covered in crude prison tattoos. Deacon was tossing a rusty padlock up and down in his hand, his eyes scanning the yard like a hawk hunting mice.

"Where's the quiet one?" Deacon asked, spitting on the ground.

"Over by the fence, boss," one of his lackeys replied, pointing toward the perimeter.

Roman was sitting alone on a concrete bench, reading a worn, coverless book. He looked entirely detached from his surroundings, completely ignoring the unspoken rule of the yard: never sit with your back to the open field.

Deacon grinned, a jagged flash of gold teeth. "Let's go remind him of the tax."

The yard grew quiet as Deacon’s crew marched across the asphalt. Inmates stepped aside, lowering their heads.

"Hey, Wall Street," Deacon barked, slamming his hand down on the back of Roman’s bench. "I don't think you paid your entry fee yesterday. That punch was just the introduction. Today, we talk about rent."

Roman didn't lift his eyes from the page. "You're standing in my light."

A collective gasp went through the nearest group of inmates. Deacon’s smile vanished, replaced by a dark, murderous scowl. He reached out, grabbing Roman by the collar of his gray shirt, pulling him up to his feet.

"You think because you got some silver hair and a fancy vocabulary you're special?" Deacon hissed, raising the hand holding the heavy padlock. "I own this block. I own the guards. I own the air you breathe. You’re going to give me everything in your commissary, and then you're going to get on your knees and—"

Deacon stopped.

He stopped because he felt something sharp and metallic pressing directly against his femoral artery.

It wasn't a standard prison shank. It was a surgical-grade, high-tensile steel scalpel blade, held precisely between Roman’s index and middle finger. Roman hadn't even uncrossed his legs fully. His movement had been so fast, so utterly fluid, that none of Deacon’s guards had seen it happen.

"Let's discuss logistics," Roman whispered, his voice dangerously calm, his face inches from Deacon's. "This blade is currently a fraction of a millimeter away from opening your leg. If I slice it, you will bleed out on this concrete in exactly forty-three seconds. The guards will not reach you in time. Your men will not know how to stop the pressure."

Deacon’s breath hitched. The bravado evaporated from his eyes, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror. He could feel the cold edge of the steel biting into his skin through his pants.

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

"Who... who the hell are you?" Deacon choked out.

"I am the man who allowed you to hit him yesterday so the Warden wouldn't look too closely at my intake file," Roman said softly. "But today, the game changes. You work for me now, Deacon. Tell your boys to walk away, or we find out exactly how fast your heart can pump your life onto my shoes."

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