Page 17 of Shadowman
“We’re gonna have aquiet nighttonight, got it?”
“Let’s make it aquiet nightfor once, inmate.”
That sorta thing.
Truth be told, I’m not even sure if Velle knows; that’s howhush-hushthe whole thing is. Part of me assumes Velle knows about literally everything that happens within these walls, because heisthe Warden’s top dog; his henchman, his eternally loyal second in command. It’s his job to have eyes everywhere, just like the Warden does.
So hemustknow…Right?
Still, I can’t be absolutely certain. Velle’s never shown his face in the rec room for aQuiet Night, and the guards who organize it seem to go to great lengths to keep any mention of it away from him. But just because he doesn’t participate, doesn’t mean he’s not aware of what’s going on.Same goes for The Ivory…
I’m positive the Warden knows aboutQuiet Night. But he’s not going to say anything, because that’s the name of his game. To let usthinkwe’re getting away with things… Meanwhile, he’s standing over us all, pulling the strings, goddamn puppet master that he is.
First rule of Quiet Night is you never, ever talk about it.
See what I mean?
It must be around three o’clock in the morning, though I’d have no idea. I haven’t looked at a clock in ages. But despite the haphazard schedule and lack of windows in this place, your body’s internal clock adjusts. And after a while, you start to work off of that.
We’re in the basement—a group of deranged criminals and the equally feral men in charge—where we have been for hours. And I just kicked the shit out of Nieves, on a mat, surrounded by a circle of cheering guards and prisoners.
It was a decent fight. He got a few licks in, and I can feel my right eye swelling already. My knees are wobbly, skin raw, various sore muscles. But I won.
Linetti and Brenner, two of the guards who hostQuiet Night, are counting their winnings on the side, while one prisoner, Cooper, drags Nieves off the mat, leaving a trail of blood as he goes.
He’ll be fine.
“Ayo, walk it off, papi,” grumbles Lucas, a guard who lost money.
Serves him right for betting against me. I’m undefeated, bitch.
“Rub some dirt on it. You’ll live,” Brenner adds, unsurprisingly unsympathetic. “Who’s up next?”
Linetti checks the writing on his hand. “Uh, let’s see… We got Hammond up against… Oh, shit.” He chuckles. “O’Malley. Goodluck, sport.” He shoots Hammond a look, who understandably appears worried.
O’Malley isn’tundefeatedper se, but even his losses feel like a win, because of how brutal and fucking crazy he is.
I’m swiping blood away from my eyebrow as O’Malley slaps me on the side. I wince from the tenderness after being punched there probably a dozen times.
“No mercy,” he says to me, grinning and sticking out his tongue.
“No surrender.” I grab him roughly by the shoulders, shoving him toward the circle.
He jogs onto the mat like a psychopathic Connor McGregor, beating his chest and yelling out nonsense, threatening everyone who boos him.
Hammond has a good foot on O’Malley in height—the dude is barely five-six—and probably at least fifty pounds in muscle. He’s a big guy. But size doesn’t mean dick in fighting, especially under prison rules.
Anything goes.
No holds fucking barred.
The shouts, whistles, and taunts are amplified when Brenner calls out, “Fight!”
I’m often surprised no one can hear us down here. For as huge as this place is, and all the thick concrete everywhere, the noise still really travels.
Running fingers from my brow, over my eye and onto my cheekbone, I shiver at the sensation ofpain; the throbbing ache with its own heartbeat.
I like it. I don’t know why, but I do.
