Page 92 of Harbor

All gone.

EIGHTEEN

“Hey, Zulla!”

Renzo looked away from the calendar someone had taped on the wall of his cell—likely a damn guard at one point or another, or maybe the last person who used the cell. He had a bunkmate, but the guy was in for petty crimes and looking at a slap on the wrist. He certainly wasn’t at the level Renzo was in this fucking hell.

Soon, they were going to move him from the jailhouse to the big house. As the cops liked to point out every single time they passed his cell, a prison wasn’t like this shithole. It was worse. And he was exactly the kind of fresh meat inmates enjoyed taking a bite out of when a guard’s back was turned. Renzo supposed they told him that shit as a way to scare him, but really, it just pissed him off.

“What?” Renzo asked.

The guard who had called his name came into view just beyond the bars of his cell. Leaning against the metal, the man rested his arms along the slot where they shoved in the shit they liked to call food. It was better than nothing, sure, but it was also one step above wet dog food, too. He ate it because he had to, not because he particularly wanted to. Besides, it wasn’t like he really had a choice about anything in here.

Even going outside was regulated to one hour a day, supervised. And he wore cuffs and shackles all the way out to the yard before he was finally let off his chain like a dog, only to run around a fenced in yard. Yeah, just like a damned dog. They even told him when he could go to bed considering they turned the lights off at eight sharp every damn night.

It was tiring, really.

“Your bunkmate is coming back from his shower time,” the guard said. “Told me you switched out with him for the call this week.”

Renzo nodded. “Yeah, sure did.”

Didn’t cost him too much. Promised to keep an eye on the guy for the remainder of his time here. Made sure to snatch the guy a couple of extra magazines when he was able to get his hands on them from a guard that wasn’t too bad. Sometimes, things that seemed simple to those who weren’t locked up were fucking treasures to people behind bars.

A stupid trade could mean the greatest gift.

Like an extra phone call.

The guard beyond the bars nodded, and stepped back a foot. “Heard your detective was in again to question you.”

Renzo scowled, but hid it well enough by looking away. He didn’t understand what the fucking point was with the detective. The guy kept coming up with more questions, hoping to all hell Renzo was going to give him some kind of answers. Renzo never did. He had nothing to say. It didn’t matter how many times the man said he had witnesses to the fact there was a woman with Renzo, and that even Diego talked a bit about Lucia—without giving her last name, it seemed—he never confirmed it.

He did it all alone.

That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

Even his lawyer—some shithead that was appointed to him when he was first brought up on charges in New York—tried to convince him that a deal could possibly be made if he was willing to give up his accomplice. Renzo still said nothing. There was nothing to say. They didn’t have the evidence to bring her in on their own, and he bet her family was keeping her well protected. Which was fine because that was exactly what he was going to do for her, too. He’d be long dead in a grave before he ever gave up Lucia.

Simple as that.

“You know, you could make this easier on yourself if you were smart about this, and talked to the detective,” the guard said.

Renzo laughed. “Yeah, I bet. Can I go make my phone call now, or …?”

The guard rolled his eyes, nodded, and then took another step back. “Hands through the slot, kid.”

Here he was, twenty years old, locked up and facing twenty-five to life, and people were still calling him a goddamn kid. Renzo wished he could be surprised, but he really wasn’t. Story of his fucking life, it seemed.

Giving the calendar and the date one last look—October fourteenth—he stepped up to the cell door, and put his hands through the slot like he’d been told. The guard locked his wrists into the cuffs he had at the ready, and then gestured for him to step back. Which he did. It was better, and shit was just easier in here, when people followed the rules. Or, that’s what he had learned rather quickly. Don’t cause problems for other people, and they wouldn’t cause problems for you.

Easy enough for Renzo.

Putting his hand up for the camera to see, the guard lifted two fingers. Soon after, a loud ring echoed through the cell, and the sounds of the lock coming undone resounded right after. Once the door was open, and the guard was waiting to take him by the arm with an outstretched hand, Renzo finally stepped out of his cell for the first time all day. If all went well, he’d get his hour of yard time later. Which he would use to run a few laps until he was exhausted and couldn’t think.

Then, he wouldn’t have to listen to the drunks that were brought in to sleep off their stupor throughout the night. Or the fights that seemed to constantly break out between other cellmates throughout the small block.

Renzo was directed through the long hallway past the row of cells, and beyond a second and then a third set of locked doors before the guard stopped before the corridor where a row of payphones waited. Pulling out a quarter from his pocket, the guard handed it over, then lengthened the chain connecting Renzo’s cuffs, so it would be slightly more comfortable when he got to make his phone call.

“Let’s hope whoever you’re calling today picks up, huh?” the guard half-joked.