Page 23 of Imprisoned

“Boss, we got eyes on Marcus’s new recruits.” Rico slides a folded piece of paper across the table. My fingers brush over the contraband—prison guard schedules, patrol routes, blind spots in the cameras. Information is currency here; Rico is the best data broker behind these walls.

Dante, our muscle, cracks his thick neck. Built like a tank with fists that could crush concrete, he’s saved my ass more times than I can count. “Want me to send a message?”

“Not yet.” I pop a stale piece of bread in my mouth. “Let’s see what our friend Tommy dug up first.”

Tommy, the youngest of our crew, fidgets with his sleeve. Smart kid, probably shouldn’t be in here, but his talent for electronics makes him invaluable. He’s rewired half the prison’s security systems, giving us eyes and ears everywhere.

“Marcus’s new guys?” Tommy leans in, voice low. “They’re Aryan Brotherhood. Heavy hitters from D block.”

Snake, our resident con artist, rolls his eyes. “Amateur move. AB’s got too much heat on them.”

I nod, appreciating Snake’s insight. With his silver tongue and pretty boy looks, he’s talked his way out of more shit than anyone else in here. Guards trust him, which makes him perfect for running our contraband operation.

“Keep tabs on them,” I tell Rico. “I want to know every move they make.”

My crew nods in unison. They know their roles and the consequences of failure. I’ve built this family piece by piece, choosing each member for their unique skills. Together, we control everything that matters in this concrete box—drugs, weapons, information, protection.

Marcus might think he’s making moves, but he’s playing checkers while I play chess. And in this game, I’m always several moves ahead.

13

WILLOW

Iarrive at my office early, hoping to gather my thoughts before another intense day. The familiar scent of coffee and sanitizer fills the air, but something’s different. A cream-colored envelope sits in the center of my desk.

I pick it up. The handwriting is exquisite—flowing cursive that belongs in an art gallery, not a maximum security prison. My heart tumbles over itself in its hurry as I see the signature at the bottom of the letter.

Axel Morrison.

“This isn’t possible.” I glance around my empty office, feeling exposed. The security protocols are strict—inmates can’t send mail to staff offices, and every correspondence goes through multiple checkpoints.

I scan the letter, my cheeks burning hotter with each line. The words blur together, but their meaning is crystal clear.

“Think, Willow.” I force myself to set the letter down and examine the facts. Someone had to physically bring this here. Either Axel has connections among the staff, or...

A knock at my door makes me jump.

“Morning, Dr. Matthews.” The janitor tips his hat and pushes his cleaning cart past my office.

The janitor, perhaps? He can access every room and works early hours when no one’s around. How many other staff members has Axel corrupted?

The thought should disturb me more than it does. Instead, I find myself almost... impressed by his resourcefulness. After all, haven’t I already crossed similar lines myself? The money I slipped to Martinez for private time with Axel makes me no better than whoever smuggled this letter.

My face flushes again. I fold the letter carefully, sliding it into my pocket. Another thread in the web of secrets I’m weaving around myself. The professional boundaries I once thought unbreakable now seem like arbitrary lines in the sand, easily swept away by my fascination with him.

Aas I try to focus on my morning paperwork, his words echo in my mind, a siren song I can’t silence.

My eyes drift to the small red light in the corner vent, where the light should be. The camera I had disabled yesterday remains offline, and the maintenance request form I forged still buying me privacy. Three hundred dollars to the security tech ensured no questions would be asked. Everyone in this damn place seems corrupt or corruptible. It’s underfunded and understaffed. Considering the type of inmates incarcerated here, it’s a liability.

Martinez had seemed almost amused when I handed him the envelope yesterday.

The guards talk—I know they do. They’ll notice the pattern: longer sessions, disabled cameras, and my insistence on privacy with one particular inmate, but money keeps their suspicions from becoming reports.

The clock on my wall ticks by agonizingly slow. Two o’clock. Axel. My stomach twists into knots every time I think about our next session.

“And how does that make you feel, Marcus?” I ask my current patient, but my mind drifts to the letter in my pocket.

Marcus rambles about his childhood trauma. I nod, jot down notes, and say the right things at the right moments. But I’m not fully present. My training kicks in automatically—validate feelings, reflect emotions, and maintain eye contact.

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