Alessandro Giovanni
Two guards in navy blue arrived at my cell. One stood watch while the other swiped a card, unlocking the door with a quiet beep. I rose to my feet, waiting for their next move.
"The warden demands your presence," one of them said.
I could smell the fear they tried so hard to mask. Their faces wore a thin veil of false confidence, but beneath it, terror gripped them.
"Lead the way, boys," I said, smirking at their hesitation.
Their confusion was almost amusing, but they didn't question me. Without another word, we began the short walk to Jackson's office.
Inside, Jackson was waiting, a cigar between his lips, exhaling thick plumes of smoke. He barely acknowledged me as he waved the guards away, leaving us alone.
"I'm here. What do you want?" I asked, cutting straight to the point.
Jackson met my gaze, his expression unreadable. He poured himself a glass of whiskey before speaking.
"I've been thinking about you, Alessandro."
He took a slow sip, eyes still locked on mine.
"How long do you plan on staying in here? You could be out there, handling that bastard yourself. There's no reason for you to rot in this place."
I scoffed, tilting my head.
"Trying to get rid of me so soon? If I didn't know better, I'd say you have an agenda."
He shifted in his seat, the slight movement confirming my suspicions.
"It's been eight months, Alessandro," he said, his voice strained.
"Stefano isn't doing shit. We've had him locked down for days now. He has no power left to interfere with our shipments."
Despite his words, the panic in his eyes betrayed him. He downed the last of his whiskey, as if trying to swallow his own unease.
I had just uncovered something priceless—Stefano had been caught.
And Jackson had kept it to himself all this time.
Now, he must be cursing his luck for letting that slip.
That meant one thing—I had to do what I did best: manipulate him into saying more.
"It took me months to get close to that son of a bitch," I said, feigning boredom.
"It'll take you a lifetime to catch up to him, Jackson. Don't bite off more than you can chew."
Jackson straightened, his jaw tightening.
"I have proof, Alessandro. You need to get the hell out of here."
I arched a brow.
"Or what? Why the sudden urgency? Is there something I'm missing?"
I pressed, watching for any tell. But the bastard wouldn't crack.
"Stay low. Talk to your lawyers about filing for an appeal," he said firmly.
"The sooner you're out there running the mafia, the better it'll be for everyone."
The navy-blue guards returned, escorting me back to my cell. But I wasn't walking away empty-handed—I had gotten what I came here for.
Three cells down, another group of guards led in a man covered in tattoos. Something about him nagged at me, a vague familiarity I couldn't quite place.
As he passed by, I threw out a casual question.
"Have we met?"
He glanced at me, smirked, then shrugged before walking on.
Something about that smirk told me this wouldn't be our last encounter.
"No time for scenes, Santos! MOVE!" one of the guards barked.
Santos…
The name clicked instantly. One of the deadliest sickos in the mafia world.
How the hell did they manage to catch him? Not that it mattered—he was Jackson's problem, not mine.
Later that night, a guard discreetly slipped a note into my cell. I hesitated for a moment before retrieving it. This was one of the two ways my outside contacts communicated with me.
> An unknown, high-value shipment. Scheduled to drop at our docks.
Word on the street: the mafia king has gone weak, making his territories vulnerable.
I clenched the note in my fist, crushing it.
Someone out there was testing my waters, trying to step into my shoes.
And at the same time, Jackson wanted me out of here?
The coincidence was too much to ignore.
I needed to get out. That wouldn't be a problem—I had already slipped out of this prison unnoticed before, just for a night at the club.
But this time, I needed a distraction. Something Jackson wouldn't see coming.
Something no one would.
A fight? No, too small.
A fire? Perfect. A big enough blaze could leave the doors vulnerable.
During dinner, I passed the message: Block C. Fire outbreak. 8 PM sharp.
By 7:30, I got up from my bed and moved to the hidden compartment behind my toilet—a small, unnoticeable box, camouflaged to match the wall.
Inside: a guard's uniform, a fake badge, and a weapon.
I checked my wristwatch. 7:59 PM.
I pressed my ear to the cell door, waiting.
Then—BOOM!
The explosion rattled the entire block.
No time to waste.
I slipped into the uniform, secured the badge, and walked out just as the automatic security override kicked in, temporarily unlocking the cells for 30 seconds.
Moving swiftly and unnoticed, I kept my head down as I passed the other guards.
I had already received confirmation—the linen truck was on standby at 8:10.
By the time I reached it, the truck's engine roared to life.
I walked past the guards, blending in as one of them, avoiding any suspicion.
Once inside, I buried myself under the linen stacks.
As expected, the truck stopped for inspection.
Just as planned, one of my men was in charge.
A quick, half-hearted check—and we were through.
I was out.
Ten minutes later, the truck rolled to a stop.
I slipped out, moving quickly toward my getaway car, parked in an inconspicuous spot.
Stripping off the guard's uniform, I changed into a black shirt and trousers, blending seamlessly into the night.
Sliding behind the wheel, I put on my sunglasses and turned the key.
The engine purred to life, a familiar and satisfying sound.
The shipment was scheduled for midnight—I had time to spare.
But first, unfinished business.
Earlier, I had asked for a specific location.
No hesitation. No questions. The information was delivered exactly as requested.
Room 1105. Second building. 4th and 9th Avenue.
I could already picture the shock on her face when she saw me.
Oh, and I wasn't just stopping by for a visit.
She was coming with me—whether she liked it or not.
Tonight, I'd give her a front-row seat to the real game of power.
The kind that made Game of Thrones look like child's play.
No one crosses Alessandro Giovanni.
And Camilla Mary-Anne Rodrigo?
She was about to be the first witness to that fact.
Smirk.