Chapter 15: Blood Lesson
The steam from the showers clung to them as they stepped out into the dry, concrete heat of the yard. It was the time of day when the sun sat like a hostile, glaring eye directly overhead, baking the asphalt and turning the few patches of struggling grass a brittle yellow. Angel, dressed in his standard-issue khakis and a white t-shirt, his hair now in two neat, damp pigtails tied with fraying white string, stuck close to Dominic’s side as they descended the short flight of stairs onto the main yard floor.
The yard was a study in controlled chaos. Basketballs thumped on cracked pavement in a relentless, arrhythmic beat. Men lifted impossibly heavy weights fashioned from cinderblocks and metal rods, their grunts merging with the general din. Conversations, sharp and transactional, hummed in the air: trades for contraband coffee, debates over sports teams that felt like dispatches from another planet, low-voiced discussions of grievances that would be settled later, out of sight.
Dominic’s group moved with a quiet cohesion to their usual spot—a stretch of shaded wall near the old, rusting handball court. It offered a clear view of the yard’s main thoroughfares. Silas and Matteo leaned against the warm brick, their posture deceptively lazy. Rafael stood slightly apart, his dark eyes scanning the shifting crowds with the detached focus of a bird of prey. Conrad ‘Doc’ Wexler was already there, sitting on an upturned milk crate, carefully unraveling a roll of medical tape and rewinding it tighter, making every inch count.
“Hey, Doc,” Angel chirped, skipping the last few steps to plop down cross-legged at the man’s feet. “You got any of that mint cream? My lips are all dry.”
Doc glanced down, a faint smile touching his lips. He was a calm island in the constant storm, his hands always clean, his voice always measured. “I might. What’s it worth to you?”
“I’ll give you my fruit cup at dinner. The peach one.”
“The one you mush into paste and eat with your fingers?” Doc asked dryly, but he was already reaching into the small, sanctioned toiletry bag he was allowed to carry.
“It’s efficient,” Angel said, echoing his shower logic, and accepted the tiny tin of salve with a beatific smile. “Thanks, Doc.”
Dominic lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up to blend with the hazy air. He watched the yard, his gaze lingering on a cluster of unfamiliar faces near the weight pile. Transfers. There were always transfers. “See the new stock, Ghost?”
Rafael gave a slight nod. “Five from County. Two for aggravated, three for distribution. The big one with the shaved head and the teardrop tattoo—Morrow. Did a fifteen-year stint down south for manslaughter. Got out, got drunk, put his brother-in-law through a window six weeks later.” He recited it like a weather report. “He’s an Alpha. Smells… impatient.”
Silas cracked his neck, a sound like grinding stones. “Impatient is boring. Impatient makes mistakes.”
Angel, engrossed in applying the mint salve, looked up. “What kind of mistakes?”
“The kind that gets you dead, kid,” Silas said, not unkindly.
“Oh.” Angel considered this, then went back to his lips.
For a while, it was peaceful. Dom smoked. Angel finished with his lips and started braiding and unbraiding the ends of one pigtail. Silas and Matteo discussed, in monosyllables, the relative merits of two different brands of push-up grips that didn’t exist in here. Doc checked his pulse out of habit.
The peace was a membrane, thin and easily punctured.
Angel grew restless. He tapped Dominic’s knee. “Daddy, I’m gonna go see if Jerry has any new pictures of his cats. He got mail yesterday.”
Jerry was a seventy-year-old forger with a life sentence and a soft spot for Angel, who genuinely adored the photos of his persian cats.
Dominic’s eyes tracked the distance to Jerry’s usual bench by the withered maple tree. Twenty yards. Clear line of sight. “Stay where I can see you. And come straight back.”
“Yes, Daddy.” Angel bounced up and trotted off, his movements light and oddly graceful amidst the lumbering, tense gaits of the other inmates.
He was visible, a flash of white hair and eager steps, weaving through the clusters of men. He reached Jerry’s bench, and the old man’s wrinkled face lit up. He pulled an envelope from his jacket. Angel sat next to him, leaning in as Jerry spread photos on the bench.
Dominic watched, the cigarette halfway to his lips. Rafael watched the new fish. Silas watched Dominic watch Angel.
It happened when Angel was on his way back, clutching a prized new photo of a fluffy white cat named Mr. Snuffles. He was cutting behind a group playing a loud, profane game of craps, momentarily obscured from Dominic’s direct view.
Morrow, the new transfer, had been eyeing the odd, pretty boy since he’d seen him in the showers. He saw an opportunity, a blind spot. He moved with the blunt confidence of a man who’d spent his life using his size to get what he wanted.
He stepped directly into Angel’s path.
Angel stopped, tilting his head up. Morrow was massive, all thick neck and clenched fists. His scent was aggressive, a sour mix of alpha pheromones and cheap deodorant. Angel’s nose wrinkled. “Excuse me,” he said politely, trying to step around.
Morrow’s hand shot out, not to hit, but to grab. His thick fingers dug into the soft flesh of Angel’s ass, yanking him forward off-balance. He pulled Angel flush against him, chest to chest, his other arm wrapping around Angel’s back in a mockery of an embrace. He leaned down, his breath hot and foul. “What’s the hurry, sugar? Heard you’re the welcoming committee.”
Angel didn’t struggle. He didn’t freeze. His body went perfectly still for one fraction of a second. Then he drew a breath, and screamed.
It wasn’t a scream of terror. It was a high, clear, piercing summons, devoid of panic but full of urgent demand. “DADDY!”
The effect was instantaneous. The crap game stuttered to a halt. Conversations died. Every head in the vicinity turned.
Dominic was already moving. The cigarette hit the ground, extinguished by his heel. He covered the twenty yards in a few long, terrifyingly fast strides. His face was a mask of cold, silent fury.
Morrow, surprised by the scream and the sudden attention, started to laugh, a coarse, grating sound. “What, you need your—”
He never finished. Dominic’s hand closed around the back of Morrow’s neck, fingers like iron vise-tongs finding specific pressure points. It wasn’t a punch; it was a ruthless, surgical disengagement. He wrenched Morrow’s head back and to the side, breaking the man’s hold on Angel with such violent finality that something in Morrow’s shoulder popped. A pained gasp replaced the laugh.
Angel stumbled back as Morrow was ripped away from him. Before he could even sway, Dominic’s other arm was around him, pulling him tight into the sanctuary of his body, turning so his own back was to the confused, enraged Morrow. Angel’s face pressed into Dominic’s chest, the cat photo crinkling between them.
“You fucking—” Morrow roared, clutching his shoulder, his face mottled with rage and pain. He took a step forward, fist cocked.
He never took a second step.
Silas was there. He hadn’t run. He had simply arrived, a mountain shifting position with an unsettling, quiet speed. He stepped between Dominic and the advancing Morrow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t posture. He just looked at Morrow, his battered-ham face expressionless, his lake-calm eyes utterly empty.
Morrow, fueled by adrenaline and humiliation, made his mistake. He swung. A wild, powerful right hook aimed at Silas’s jaw.
Silas moved his head an inch. The fist whistled past. Morrow was over-extended, off-balance.
Silas’s hands came up. One clamped onto the back of Morrow’s head, tangling in the short hair. The other seized his jaw. It was not a fighting hold. It was an intimate, horrific parody of a lover’s caress. Morrow’s eyes, wide with sudden, dawning understanding, met Silas’s flat gaze.
Then Silas wrenched.
It was a terrible, wet, tearing sound, amplified by the sudden silence of the yard. Not a clean break. A brutal, savage rip. He tore Morrow’s throat out with his teeth.
Blood erupted. A hot, arterial spray that painted the sun-bleached concrete in a shocking, vivid arc. Morrow made a wet, gurgling sound, his body convulsing as Silas held him upright for a second longer before letting him drop. The body hit the ground with a heavy, final thud, twitching, a pool of dark red rapidly spreading around the ruined neck.
The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was the distant, oblivious buzz of a lawnmower somewhere beyond the walls.
Dominic, still shielding Angel, slowly turned. He didn’t look at the body. He looked down at Angel, who had peeked out from his chest. Angel’s dark blue eyes were wide, not with horror, but with intense, fascinated curiosity. He stared at Silas, whose mouth and lower face were drenched in blood, at the crimson dripping from his chin onto his shirt. Silas calmly spat a fragment of something onto the ground beside the corpse.
Angel looked from Silas to the dying man on the ground, then up at Dominic. His voice, when he spoke, was a whisper of pure clinical interest. “He’s making the bubbles, Daddy. Like soup.”
Dominic smoothed a hand over Angel’s pigtail. His voice was a low, private rumble, meant only for Angel’s ears. “That’s why we don’t play with our food, baby. It gets messy.”
Angel nodded, as if receiving sage advice about table manners. He glanced back at the cat photo, now speckled with a fine mist of blood. “Oh. Mr. Snuffles got dirty.”
The spell was broken by the shrill blast of a guard’s whistle. Then another. Boots pounded on concrete as the reaction team came at a run, batons out, faces set in grim, professional annoyance.
They skidded to a halt at the scene. The ranking officer, a sergeant named Hough with a permanent frown, looked from the body, to Silas standing calmly in a shower of gore, to Dominic holding Angel, to the rest of their crew who had formed a loose, implicit perimeter.
“Goddammit, Crusher,” Hough sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Again? Really?”
Silas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood. He said nothing.
Another guard, younger, paled as he looked at Morrow’s neck. “Jesus, Sarge, he’s—”
“I can see what he is, Evans,” Hough snapped. He looked at Dominic. “Reaper. Your boy start this?”
Dominic’s gaze could have frozen lava. “New transfer assaulted my son. Grabbed him. Held him. Crusher intervened. I was retrieving my child.”
Hough’s eyes flicked to Angel, who was still studying his bloody cat photo. “That accurate, kid?”
Angel looked up and nodded earnestly. “He touched my bum and squeezed it and pulled me and he smelled bad. I called Daddy. Uncle Silas helped.” He stated it as a simple sequence of events.
Hough looked back at the corpse. “Intervened. You call that intervening? You could’ve just broke his arm, Crusher. Or his neck. Clean-like.”
Silas finally spoke, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Wasn’t feeling clean.”
A faint, incredulous snort came from one of the other guards, quickly stifled.
Hough shook his head, the exasperation of a man dealing with a particularly destructive, yet predictable, force of nature. “Alright. Evans, call it in. Medical, clean-up.” He pointed a thick finger at Silas. “You. Solitary. Thirty days. Again. You’re turning it into a goddamn timeshare.”
Silas just shrugged, holding out his hands for the cuffs. He looked at Angel as the guards approached. “You okay, kid?”
Angel nodded. “Thank you, Uncle Silas. Sorry you have to go to the quiet room.”
“It’s alright. Needed a vacation.” The guards locked the cuffs on him, leading him away. He went peacefully, a colossus dripping red, while the clean-up crew moved in with bags and bleach.
Hough turned to Dominic. “Keep your kid on a shorter leash, Reaper. This is getting expensive.”
Dominic’s arm tightened around Angel. “The leash is just fine, Sergeant. It’s the strays that need to be put down faster.” He said it without malice, a simple statement of fact.
Hough just sighed again and walked away, barking orders about hose-down.
The yard was coming back to life, the shock fading into the familiar rhythm of prison spectacle. Men went back to their basketball, their lifting, their deals, shooting glances at the dark, wet stain on the concrete. It was already becoming a story: You hear? New guy thought the Reaper’s kid was up for grabs. Crusher made a fountain out of his neck.
Dominic guided Angel back to their spot by the wall. Angel held the soiled photo carefully. “Can we wash Mr. Snuffles?”
“We’ll get a new one from Jerry,” Dominic said, extracting the picture and handing it to Doc, who took it with a tweezers from his bag and dropped it into a small biohazard zip-lock he kept for such occasions.
Conrad was already inspecting Angel. “You hurt? Any pain where he grabbed you?”
Angel shook his head. “Just fingers. He was squishy, not strong like Daddy.”
Doc checked the back of Angel’s pants, saw the reddened imprint of fingers on the fabric, but no broken skin. “You’ll bruise. I’ll give you some arnica later.”
“Okay.”
Rafael drifted back over. His face was impassive. “Morrow had twenty-seven cents in his account and a sister in Tempe who won’t claim the body. No affiliations here. No one’s going to mourn.”
Matteo nodded once, a solid, final punctuation to the incident.
Angel leaned against Dominic, his earlier excitement fading into a post-adrenaline clinginess. He wrapped his arms around Dominic’s waist. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Was I not supposed to call you?”
Dominic cupped the back of his head, fingers threading through his pigtails. He bent, placing a firm kiss on the crown of his head, right where the white hair parted. “You call me every single time. You understand? Every. Single. Time. That was perfect.”
Angel nuzzled into him, comforted. “He did smell bad.”
“I know, honey. I know.”
The yard buzzed on. The sun beat down. The stain on the concrete spread, then darkened, a new landmark in a place with too many already. In fifteen minutes, a trustee would arrive with a hose and a stiff brush, and it would fade to a faint, shadowy reminder. In thirty days, Silas would return, unchanged. And Angel would sleep curled against Dominic that night, perfectly safe, dreaming of white cats and the soap-bubble sounds a man makes when his throat is gone.