The steam from the showers rolled across the floor in thick, humid waves. Donny reached the corridor between the laundry and the blocks, his shoulders tight.
The camera light above was dead. Holden had filed the paperwork, and the prison had looked the other way.
"Paulie says it's time for a renovation," the Viper growled, stepping out from the haze.
Vince wasn't alone. Two of Valenti's guys moved to flank Donny, but they underestimated the man. Donny Castello didn't wait for the first punch.
He lunged.
Donny's fist connected with the first lackey's jaw—a clean, professional snap of the head that sent the man reeling into the steam pipes. Before the second man could react, Donny spun, driving a hard left hook into his ribs and a follow-up right that split the guy's lip. He was a whirlwind of practiced violence, moving with a grace that came from years of being the man people looked up to.
But then the Viper stepped in.
Vince didn't fight with honor. As Donny pivoted to deal with a recovered lackey, the Viper landed a heavy, weighted blow to the back of Donny's head. Donny hit the damp concrete hard, the world spinning in nauseating circles.
He scrambled to get back up, but three pairs of boots were already there.
"Hold him!" Vince roared.
The two lackeys hauled Donny up, pinning his arms behind his back. Donny struggled, his muscles bulging, a defiant snarl on his face even as blood began to leak from his nose. He looked past the Viper, locking eyes with Artie Sterling. Artie just checked his watch, his face a mask of total indifference.
Vince stepped in close. He used the roll of quarters in his fist like a hammer. The first blow to Donny's midsection snapped two ribs with a sickening crack. Donny's air left him in a wheeze, but he didn't give them the satisfaction of a scream. He spat a thick glob of blood onto Vince's shoes.
"Still got bite, don't you?" Vince hissed.
He rained blows on Donny's face—short, brutal strikes designed to disfigure. A molar shattered against Donny's tongue; a deep, jagged gash opened over his eyebrow, pouring heat into his eyes.
Vince grabbed Donny by the hair, forcing his head back. "You're staying quiet, Castello. Not for your sake, but for hers. If you breathe a word of this—to your crew or the Warden—Sarah Miller won't make it to her car tonight. We'll make her an example of what happens when guards get too close to the trash."
Donny's body went still. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. He looked at Artie, seeking some shred of humanity, but found only the ledger.
Vince gave him one last crushing blow to the temple. Donny's knees buckled as they let him go, and he collapsed into the shallow water on the floor.
The Aftermath
Donny lay there for a long time, the silence of the laundry room only broken by the hiss of the pipes. He dragged himself up, his body a map of agony. He used the polished steel of a dryer to steady himself, staring at the ruin of his face. His eye was swelling shut, and his mouth was a bloody mess, but his gaze was still steady.
He had to get back. He had to show them he was still standing.
When he reached the South Block, the silence was absolute. Johnny and Lou were waiting by the gate. When they saw him, Lou's face turned a dark, dangerous shade of red, his hands curling into boulders.
"Donny..." Lou's voice was a low, guttural vibration. "Who? Tell me who, and I'll burn this block down right now."
"I fell," Donny croaked. The words felt like glass in his throat. He reached out and grabbed Lou's shirt, pulling him close so only the three of them could hear. "I tripped on the stairs in the laundry. That's the story, Lou. You hear me?"
"Donny, you didn't trip into a three-man beating," Johnny whispered, his eyes darting toward the tower where Sarah was stationed. He saw the way Donny's hand was shaking. "They threatened her, didn't they?"
"I fell," Donny repeated, his voice cracking with the weight of the lie. "If you're loyal to me, you'll drop it. No retaliation. No talk. Just stay gold and stay quiet."
A moment later, Sarah Miller walked the line for the evening count.
She stopped in front of Donny's cell. Her professional mask, usually so perfect, shattered into a thousand pieces. Her hand flew to her radio, her eyes wide with a horrified, silent scream as she took in his shattered face and blood-soaked shirt.
Donny stared at his feet. He didn't look up. He didn't give her a sign. He just stood there, leaning his broken ribs against the cold bars, protecting her with the only thing he had left: his silence.