Sweet Prison: Chapter 1

Fifteen years ago

(Massimo, age 20)

“All rise.”

I adjust my suit jacket and slowly stand up from the defendant’s seat. The cuffs of my shirt are too tight, chafing the already irritated skin on my wrists. The motherfuckers who escorted me from county lockup to the courthouse made sure to slap the smallest handcuffs on me that they could.

Judge Collins waddles in. His mass of white hair and beard contrasts with his black attire. I try catching his eye, but his gaze persistently strays elsewhere, almost like it’s intentional. I guess he’s trying to make sure no one suspects that we actually know each other. It’s hilarious, considering how many favors he’s received from Cosa Nostra over the decades. He—along with nearly half of Boston’s elites, bureaucrats, and top law-and-order brass—was present at the New Year’s Eve party where everything went to shit.

I take a deep breath, awaiting the delivery of my sentence. After my arraignment and pretrial hearing and on my lawyer’s advice, I took a deal. A guilty plea to a charge of voluntary manslaughter in exchange for an expected sentence of three years. Maybe four, if the judge doesn’t want to look like he’s taking it easy on me. With three hundred witnesses, there’s no way to deny that I shot the bastard who killed my stepbrother. So I waived my right to a trial and avoided tying up a shitpile of time and money in this clusterfuck, not to mention a potential maximum sentence. This way, with a possibility of parole in about a year, I should be home in no time. Not a bad deal—a handful of years of my life for blowing away the fuck who murdered Elmo. Knowing that I was able to end that piece of shit then and there is also satisfying as hell.

“Massimo Spada, you have pleaded guilty to the charge of voluntary manslaughter as defined by statute and governed by Massachusetts General Laws Chapter 265, Section 13.” The judge’s voice fills the room, and his eyes finally meet mine. “Justice is blind, Mr. Spada. Every man is equal before the law. Given the gravity of your actions and your obvious lack of regret during the hearing, I hereby sentence you to eighteen years in a maximum security state prison…”

A high-pitched sound, like static on an old-fashioned TV, erupts in my head. It overwhelms the loud murmuring that has suddenly taken over the courtroom.

Eighteen years? Eighteen fucking years? No, that can’t be right. McBride assured me that four was the absolute maximum I’d get, considering the judge’s connection to the Family. This has to be a mistake. There’s no other explanation. I turn toward Judge Collins. Stare right at him. Waiting for him to announce that he made an error, all while the ringing bounces off the inner walls of my skull. He doesn’t utter another word.

Someone gets ahold of my arms, jerking them behind me. I can vaguely hear my lawyer yammering at me about an appeal. Somehow, over the ruckus happening both inside my stunned brain and out in the room, I still manage to hear the clank of handcuffs locking around my wrists. This can’t be happening. God knows I’m not innocent in this or any other crimes I’ve committed, but he has no right to ruin my life like this! It’s a fucking nightmare, and I need someone to punch me in the face so I can wake the fuck up!

I dig my heels into the floor, still glaring at the judge, who’s descending the steps after leaving his seat.

No. I will not have the next eighteen years of my life stolen.

“Collins!” My roar explodes over the clamor of hushed voices.

The bastard doesn’t even blink. Just keeps ignoring me completely.

McBride is babbling some lawyer crap at me again, his tone almost hysterical. Something about how I’m making this worse, but the words just graze my mind, caught in the ringing in my head that’s only getting stronger. Hands, several pairs, grab my arms and push me toward the door on the side of the courtroom. I keep looking over my shoulder, searching for Judge Collins. Waiting for him to put a stop to this madness. Glancing back, every couple of steps, even as I’m being led down the narrow hallway toward the holding cell where I changed into my freshly pressed suit less than twenty minutes prior. My legs seem to be moving on nothing but muscle memory.

“Two minutes, Spada.” One of the guards reaches for my handcuffed wrists. “Your transport is waiting.”

“Two minutes for what?”

“For you to change your digs.” He pushes me into the room and nods to the far corner.

Acid surges up my throat, burning my flesh, as I follow his gaze to the rickety bench.

There, on top of the wooden boards covered in cracked and peeling paint, lies a neatly folded pile of clothes.

Denial. Blind rage. Helplessness. The chaos of different emotions hits me, all of them washing over me at the same time, and suddenly, I can’t fucking breathe. Can’t move. Can’t think. The only thing I can do is stare at the bright orange stack of clothes on that bench, searing my fucking corneas.