Chapter 41: Cannibal?
The next evening, the air in the corridor felt charged with a different kind of electricity. It was the brittle, watchful tension of new meat. Five of them, huddled together like spooked cattle in their ill-fitting state blues, being herded by Eli “Ledger” Ronstad. Ledger moved with a languid, unhurried grace, a man showing tourists around a museum they were now trapped inside.
“Alright, listen up,” Ledger’s voice was a smooth, conversational baritone, cutting through the clanging din of pre-lockdown. He didn’t shout. He commanded attention by sounding utterly reasonable. “We’re on a tight schedule. Lights out in twenty, which means you get the express tour. You don’t know the rules, you break the rules. You break the rules, you get broken. Simple math.”
The five transfers—three Betas, two Alphas trying and failing to look tough—followed him with wide eyes. They were fresh from intake, still smelling of industrial disinfectant and fear-sweat. Ledger pointed a thumb over his shoulder as they passed the closed doors of the laundry. “That’s Tucker’s territory. You need your whites extra white, you go to Tucker. You pay in cigarettes or commissary credit. You don’t pay, your next shirt comes back sticky. Understood?”
Nods all around.
“Good.” Ledger turned a corner, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. “North wing, B Block, is where the Skinner brothers holed up. They’re in Ad-Seg now, but their crew is jumpy. You don’t go north unless you have business. Your business isn’t their business. So keep to the central and south corridors until you get your bearings.”
He paused by a heavily graffitied stretch of wall. A crudely drawn crown was spray-painted in fading black. “This marks the edge of Ricciardi territory. You cross this line, you’re in his yard. Metaphorically and literally.”
One of the Alphas, a bulky guy with a shaved head named Carver, grunted. “Ricciardi. That the old mafia guy? The Reaper?”
Ledger’s warm, open face didn’t change, but his eyes cooled a degree. “That’s Dominic Ricciardi. You don’t call him ‘Reaper’ unless you’re on a first-name basis with a concussion. You don’t call him anything unless he speaks to you first. He runs this side of the prison. His word is law. His crew is his family. You disrespect one, you disrespect all. And they,” Ledger said, leaning in slightly, “are not forgiving.”
He continued walking, the transfers scrambling to keep up. “His right hand is Silas Wooledge. ‘Crusher.’ Does the name justice. You see him, you nod respectfully and you get the hell out of his way. He’s not a talker. Then there’s Rafael Villareal—‘Ghost.’ He knows things. Things you haven’t even thought about yet. You don’t lie to him. You especially don’t lie for him. And Conrad Wexler, ‘Doc.’ He’s the closest thing to a medic we got. You get cut, you get burned, you got a fever, you see Doc. You pay him the same respect you’d pay a surgeon. Because that’s what he is.”
They were approaching the junction that led to the common showers and, beyond that, the cell block where Dominic’s crew was housed. The noise of the prison was settling into the low, grating hum of nighttime routine. Footsteps echoed, gates clanged, voices dropped to murmurs.
“Now,” Ledger said, slowing his pace, his tone shifting to something more pointed. “There’s one more. A special case. You see him, you do nothing. You say nothing. You think nothing too loud.”
A Beta with nervous eyes, Jenkins, spoke up. “Who?”
Before Ledger could answer, a figure rounded the corner ahead of them.
It was Dominic.
He moved with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who owned the ground he walked on. His black eyes scanned the corridor ahead, missing nothing. But his focus, his entire physical presence, was oriented downward, toward the burden in his arms.
Angel was curled against his chest, held up on Dominic’s hip like a much smaller child. His face was buried in Dominic’s neck, but the cloud of platinum blonde curls was unmistakable. He had one arm hooked around Dominic’s shoulders, the other hand was tucked up near his face, two of his fingers shoved deep into his mouth, his cheeks working softly. A low, muffled, rhythmic sniffle punctuated the air. Hic… hic… He was crying, softly and miserably.
Dominic’s massive hand spanned the entire curve of Angel’s backside, holding him securely. He was whispering, his head tilted down toward Angel’s ear, his voice a deep, continuous rumble too low for the transfers to make out words. It was a sound of pure, undeniable comfort. With each step Dominic took, he gave a slight, almost imperceptible bounce, a rocking motion meant to soothe.
Ledger stopped. The transfers stopped behind him, their confusion palpable.
“That’s him,” Ledger said quietly, nodding his chin toward the pair. “That’s Angel.”
The transfers stared. The sight was dissonant, jarring against the harsh geometry of the prison. The feared Reaper, cradling a weeping young man like a toddler. The raw, physical affection was stunning in its incongruity.
“Angel is… he’s Ricciardi’s,” Ledger explained, his voice matter-of-fact. “His son. In every way that counts in here. He’s an Omega. He’s also eighteen years old and serving a life sentence for murder and cannibalism.”
Carver blinked. “The fuck? That little thing?”
“That little thing,” Ledger said, his voice losing none of its warmth but gaining an edge of steel, “ate his foster father’s liver while the man was still screaming. Then he baked the rest of him into a meatloaf and served it to the neighbors. They didn’t find the remains for a week.” He let that sink in. “In here, he’s eaten… let’s just say he has atypical dietary needs. Which he occasionally indulges without permission. Which is why he’s currently in trouble.”
As Dominic drew closer, the details became clearer. Angel’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears tracking through the faint dust on his cheeks. His breath hitched around his fingers. He was wearing standard grays, but they swam on his slender frame, and the shape of him—the narrow waist, the soft curve of his chest—was distinctly, delicately Omega. The claiming bite on the side of his neck, a thick, ugly scar of interlocked teeth marks, was stark against his pale skin.
Dominic looked up as he reached their group. His gaze swept over Ledger first, a curt nod of acknowledgment. Then it passed over the five new men. It wasn’t hostile. It was assessing, flat, like a guard checking the integrity of a fence. It pinned them in place.
“Eli,” Dominic said, his voice a gravelly bass.
“Dom,” Ledger replied easily. “Out for a walk?”
“Timeout,” Dominic said simply. He jostled Angel gently. “Someone decided the aviary in the greenhouse needed population control. Again.”
From the cocoon of Dominic’s neck, a small, wet, indignant voice emerged. “It was just a pigeon, Daddy. A mean one. It looked at me funny.” The words were muffled by skin and fingers.
“It looked at you funny,” Dominic repeated, deadpan. He shifted his grip, his large hand patting Angel’s backside twice in a gesture that was both chiding and comforting. “So you ripped its head off with your teeth and ate its heart. Raw. In front of the new gardener from C Block, who reportedly fainted.”
“He was squeamish,” Angel mumbled, his crying easing slightly into a pout.
“He’s in the infirmary with hysterical shock, Angel.”
“That’s a ‘him’ problem.”
One of the transfers, a younger Beta, stifled a disbelieving snort. Dominic’s eyes flicked to him. The boy immediately looked at his shoes, blood draining from his face.
Ledger cleared his throat, a smile playing on his lips. He was clearly amused. “Well, you know birds. Dirty animals. Probably full of parasites.”
“See?” Angel lifted his head, revealing his blotchy, beautiful face. His dark blue eyes were swimmy with tears, his lips petulant. “Uncle Ledger gets it.”
Dominic’s stern expression softened, just for a fraction of a second, just for Angel. He pressed a kiss to the boy’s temple. “Uncle Ledger is an enabler. You’re still in timeout. No dessert for a week.”
Angel’s face crumpled anew. He shoved his fingers back in his mouth and buried his face back into Dominic’s neck with a fresh, heartbroken sob. “You’re so meaaaaan.”
Dominic began his gentle bouncing again, his eyes meeting Ledger’s over the crown of Angel’s head. There was a silent conversation there. A shared history. Ledger’s gaze held understanding, a trace of pity, and deep affection.
“Gentlemen,” Ledger said, turning to the five transfers, who were watching this surreal domestic drama with a mixture of horror and fascination. “This is Dominic Ricciardi. And this,” he gestured, “is Angel. You’ve been introduced.”
Carver found his voice first, though it was tighter than before. “And… he’s with your… crew?”
“He is the crew,” Dominic said, his voice leaving no room for argument. His hand stroked up and down Angel’s spine. “He’s my son. You look at him, you speak to him, you even think about him without my express permission, and we will have a problem that Silas will settle. Permanently.” He let his gaze linger on each of them, a physical weight. “Do you understand the math?”
They all nodded, quick and jerky.
“Good.” Dominic adjusted his hold on Angel, who was now just sniffling, the storm passing. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have to put this one down for his nap. He’s had a big day.”
He walked past them, continuing down the corridor toward his cell block. The transfers watched him go, frozen. They saw the way Dominic’s head stayed bent, his mouth moving near Angel’s ear, still whispering. They saw Angel’s small hand come up and tangle in Dominic’s shirt, holding on.
Ledger watched them process it. He saw the confusion, the dawning fear, the adjustment of their internal prison hierarchies. A man who could kill you with a look was one thing. A man who could do that while cuddling his cannibal Omega “son” was something else entirely. He was unpredictable. His loyalties were absolute and terrifyingly specific.
“That,” Ledger said, his conversational tone returning as he gestured for them to follow him towards the common area, “is the most important rule. Angel is off-limits. He’s not a prize. He’s not a toy. He is Ricciardi’s heart, walking around outside his body. You harm him, you even annoy him, and you will disappear. Not into Ad-Seg. I mean disappear. The paperwork will say ‘transfer.’ Your family will get a letter saying you were moved to a different facility. But you’ll be in the foundation of the new admin building, or fertilizer in the greenhouse where he got that damn pigeon.”
They walked in stunned silence for a moment.
“But he… he killed someone?” Jenkins whispered. “He ate someone?”
“And he’ll do it again if he’s hungry enough, or moody enough, or if someone touches him wrong,” Ledger confirmed, not unkindly. “But within these walls, he’s just Angel. He’s the kid. He likes glitter pens and sweet tea and the color pink. He calls Doc ‘Uncle Doc’ and he helps Silas in the garden. He’ll sit on the floor by Rafael’s feet and braid his shoelaces while Rafael reads him the newspaper. He’s everyone’s little brother, or nephew, or son. You treat him with the respect you’d treat a… a very dangerous, very spoiled, very beloved child.”
He led them into the common room, where a few inmates were watching a static-filled TV. “The rest of the rules are simple. Don’t start fights you can’t finish. Pay your debts. Don’t snitch. And if you see Angel coming down the hallway with that look in his eye—the one that’s a little too bright, a little too focused—you find a guard. You find me. You find anyone. Because it means something’s caught his attention. And he doesn’t always ask before he takes a bite.”
Back in his cell, Dominic shouldered the door closed. The lock slid home with a definitive thunk. The world narrowed to the dim, familiar space: two bunks, a sink, a toilet, their few allowed possessions. Sanctuary.
He didn’t put Angel down immediately. He stood in the center of the cell, swaying gently, the bouncing motion now a slow, rocking side-to-side. Angel’s crying had subsided into hiccups and the occasional shuddering sigh. His fingers were still in his mouth, a self-soothing habit Dominic had never been able to break him of.
“Alright, baby boy,” Dominic murmured, his voice a soft vibration in his chest that Angel could feel. “Time’s up. Let’s get you settled.”
Finally, he moved to the lower bunk and sat, arranging Angel sideways on his lap. He used the hem of his own shirt to wipe the tear-tracks from Angel’s face, his touch infinitely tender. “Look at you. All worked up over a pigeon.”
“It wasn’t just the pigeon,” Angel mumbled, allowing the ministrations. He leaned into Dominic’s hand, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. “The new man in the greenhouse… he yelled at me. He said I was a monster. He said I should be… be put down.”
Dominic’s hand stilled for a second. A cold, dark stillness settled behind his eyes. “Did he.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Angel nodded, his curls bouncing. “And then the pigeon cooed at me. It was a bad day, Daddy.”
“I see.” Dominic’s voice was dangerously soft. He’d deal with the new gardener. Later. “Well, the pigeon is gone. And the man won’t bother you again. But you still can’t go around eating the wildlife, Angel. It upsets people. And it gives you a stomachache.”
“M’sorry,” Angel whispered, his lower lip trembling anew. He looked truly contrite, a child caught in mischief. “I just… I got so angry. And when I get angry, the red gets so loud in my head. And the red tastes… it tastes like quiet.”
Dominic knew that language. The “red” was Angel’s term for the berserk, predatory haze that could descend on him—a combination of Omega distress and his own unique pathology. Blood—warm, fresh, life-filled blood—was the only thing that ever silenced it.
He wrapped his arms around Angel, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I know, little bird. I know. But you have to try. For me. You come find me when the red gets loud. You don’t go hunting pigeons.”
Angel buried his face in Dominic’s chest, absorbing his scent, his warmth, his safety. “I’ll try, Daddy.”
“Good boy.” Dominic kissed his hair. “Now, into your pajamas. Lights out soon.”
He helped Angel change