THE WARDEN’S DEADLY MISTAKE: WHAT THE NEW INMATE WAS HIDING

The radio on the officer’s shoulder hissed with static.

“Officer, step away from the cell,” the voice repeated. It was tight. Urgent.

The officer didn't ask questions. He took three slow steps backward, his hand resting nervously on his heavy baton. He stared through the steel bars at Vincent Moretti.

Vincent didn't look like a man who had just dismantled five hardened criminals in under sixty seconds. He wasn't breathing hard. His dark hair was perfectly in place. He simply stood in the center of the concrete floor, his eyes completely calm.

Heavy boots pounded against the concrete corridor.

Warden Hayes marched into the cellblock, flanked by six guards in full tactical riot gear. Hayes was a large man with a red face and a suit that cost more than a prison guard made in a year. He looked at the bodies on the floor. Then he looked at Vincent.

“Put him in cuffs,” Hayes barked. “Solitary. Level Four.”

The tactical guards moved in, their tasers drawn.

Vincent didn't fight. He slowly raised his hands, lacing his fingers behind his head. He allowed the guards to slam him against the cold wall and lock heavy iron cuffs around his wrists.

But as they spun him around to march him out, Vincent’s eyes caught something on the floor.

It was near the hand of the largest inmate—the one who had tried to hit him from behind with a metal chair leg.

A small, crumpled piece of glossy paper.

“Wait,” Vincent said softly.

He didn't ask for permission. He dropped his shoulder, effortlessly breaking the grip of the two guards holding him. Before they could raise their weapons, Vincent knelt and snatched the paper from the floor.

It was a photograph.

The edges were burned, the center smeared with a dirty thumbprint.

Vincent stared at the image, and for the first time since he had stepped through the prison gates, a terrifying, icy rage flashed in his dark eyes.

It was a picture of his own living room. The yellow curtains. The oak coffee table. And sitting on the rug was a little girl with bright green eyes. His six-year-old daughter, Maya.

“Where did he get this?” Vincent demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly whisper.

Warden Hayes swallowed hard, his arrogant facade slipping for a fraction of a second. “Move him!”

The guards shoved Vincent forward.

His mind raced as they dragged him down the dark corridor. Answer one, open two. He had wondered why five men instantly targeted him the moment the cell door closed. Now he had the answer. They weren't trying to prove dominance. They were paid hitmen.

But that opened a terrifying new reality. If low-level thugs in a state penitentiary had a current photograph of his hidden daughter, then his entire plan was compromised.

They reached the basement level. The air smelled of damp concrete and bleach.

But Hayes didn't lead him to a solitary confinement cell.

He opened a heavy steel door that led into a soundproof interrogation room. A single metal table sat in the center. No cameras. No windows.

“Leave us,” Hayes ordered the guards.

The guards hesitated, looking at Vincent's lethal frame, but they obeyed. The door slammed shut, leaving Vincent alone with the Warden.

Hayes turned around, pulling a suppressed pistol from his suit jacket. He aimed it directly at Vincent’s chest.

“You shouldn't have survived that cell, Moretti,” Hayes said, his hand trembling slightly.