Who wouldn’t? A huge, psychotic prisoner—six foot four—who terrified everyone who crossed him, even if their betrayals were pure figments of his bizarre imagination.

“So, it is this. Bregia has problem with my brother and me. And he is wishing to murder us. Now, now. What we are doing is this.”

Garry struggled to push Ilir off. But the wiry man held him down firmly. “Stop,” he muttered. Garry complied.

“We are having to hurt you some. Stabbing you, yes.” He held up the glass knife. “But we not kill you. Cut you some much. But you will not be dying. And then you will be saying that Alberto Bregia did this.”

Ilir said, “So he will go to other prison. For dangerous prisoners. We have seen into this. It is how this works. All good.”

“No, don’t! Please!”

Artin was nodding. “Ah, it won’t be much. Six, seven times. Which is nothing. I am being stabbed. Look at these scars. People here in prison, they talk. They say you should have balls cut, you rapist.” He brushed the point over Garry’s crotch. “No, no. We are not be doing that.” They both laughed. “Just some girl you fuck? Who care? So, you good. Just face, chest, maybe cut ear bad.”

“Cut off,” his brother said.

“Has to look like Bregia, something he would do.”

“Look, baby-cry, stop that. Okay, Artin. Cut him and we go. Hurry!”

Artin muttered something in Albanian and Ilir clamped his filthy hand over Garry’s mouth and gripped him with fierce strength.

Garry tried to scream.

The glass point moved toward his ear.

And then a distant voice: “Signor Soames! Dove sei?”

From the doorway he’d just exited through, the hallway that led to the interview rooms, a man was calling him.

“Are you still in the yard?”

The Albanian brothers looked toward each other.

“Mut,” Ilir spat out.

The knife vanished and they rose quickly.

Garry struggled to his feet.

“You are saying nothing!” Artin whispered. “Silence, baby-cry.” They turned and walked away quickly.

Garry stepped from the wall.

He saw who’d just called to him. It was the assistant director of the prison, a narrow, balding man who wore the uniform of the Penitentiary Police. It was perfectly pressed.

Garry joined the man in front of the doorway.

“You are well? What has happened?” He was regarding Garry’s gray, grass-stained jumpsuit.

“I fell.”

“Ah, fell. I see.” He didn’t believe him, but in prison—even in this short period of time, Garry had learned—the authorities don’t question what they choose not to question.

“Sì?” Garry asked.

“Signor Soames, I have for you good news. The prosecutor in your case has just called and informed me that the true attacker has been identified. He has applied to a magistrate that you be released.”

Breathlessly, Garry asked, “For sure?”

“Yes, yes, he is certain. The documents for release have not been signed yet but that will happen soon.”

Garry looked back at the doorway to his cell wing, thinking of the two Albanians. “Do you want me to wait in my cell?”