Two years.

It’s been two years today since I was put into this hell-hole, sentenced to ten full years at Sterling Correctional Facility. Two years since I breathed fresh air as a free man.

But my love for Serena, my one shining light, has only gotten stronger.

I feel my muscles burning as I push the heavy weights up. With each passing moment, I feel the cold metal grip against the palms of my hands. I feel the tension of the weights from my thick forearms to bulging biceps, all the way down to my shoulders and pecs. A thin sheen of sweat covers my bare chest as it slowly falls while I push the weights up. I let air out of my lungs while I push up, my body working in perfect sync to make the rep happen.

I reach the top of the rep, and I hold it there for a second, and I can feel every muscle that works to hold it up. Since coming to prison, I’ve had nothing but time, and in that time, I’ve devoted myself to working out. I never realized how inexperienced I really was before I had endless time to hone my body.

Now, though, no muscle moves in my body without my knowing it. Each move is deliberate, measured. I’m not just holding a set of weights up. I know which muscles to tense and relax, exactly how to breathe. I even know how to feel my heart rate going up and down with my workout.

The natural rhythms of my body have become my only friends in here. And I know them better than I ever have in my life.

My arms slowly bend to lower the weights down, and I feel that sweet, familiar burn ripple through new places in my upper body as it comes down and I breathe in. I don’t let this position last as long, and it’s on to another rep immediately after.

My body stopped aching and complaining during these exercises long ago. Exercise has become the one thing I can rely on in here. Without something to hang onto, despair swallows you in this bleak place. I’ve seen it happen to other men. Prison drains you. It breaks you. It flushes out your whole world and makes you see nothing but empty grayness.

From the first day, I decided not to let that happen to me.

I started working out in my cell. I did push-ups to keep the feeling of aching arms with me as much as I could bear it. When I couldn’t do any more, I did sit-ups. Every time the guards marched us out, I would hit the exercise equipment and do that until I couldn’t handle any more.

My body became my focus. It never disappointed. Each day, I found new parts of me to refine and perfect. More muscles to work out, new parts within me to exercise. Every time I thought I’d perfected something, I’d find new ways to make the best use of it.

When I was a boy, Uncle Carlo taught me how to fight. He knew more than you would guess from his humble look. He had served in the Special Forces, and he passed that training on to me, as much as he was willing and as long as he could hold my attention. I learned from him, and I could fight well. But now that I really know what the human body is capable of, I know what those lessons were for. I remember things he taught me that my body wasn’t capable of then.

When I’ve worked out so much that I can’t push any part of me any further, I go over old fights in my mind. With each day that I grow stronger, I think of things I did wrong. Things I could have done better. I remember my fights with Lorenzo, and I laugh at how easily I could have killed him if I’d known the things I know now, if I was able to do the things this machine of a body can do now. When I lift the weights, I see a scar on my forearm that I got from that last fight in the Abruzzi compound. It’s been a reminder of Serena, something that’s always in sight when she can’t be.

After twelve reps, I let my spotter take the weights from me, and I take a breath before sitting up and swinging my leg over the bench. My spotter gives me a clap on the back, and I nod to him. When I stand up, I notice other men in the exercise yard glance at me. My gaze passes over them as they look away. Nobody holds eye contact for long. When I stand up and take a step away from the bench, it’s like a statement. My presence is bigger than theirs here, not just in the way I’m built, but how I carry myself.

Nobody fucks with me.

The other prisoners took notice when I started getting stronger. Every prison has a hierarchy, a pecking order of men who rule each other, gangs who keep to themselves. When I first showed up here, I knew I had to find my place in that pecking order, and it would happen sooner rather than later.

The first time I got jumped, I made my place clear, and the punk who tried to pick a fight with me has the scars to prove it from when I drove him into the hard concrete.

He wasn’t the last, either. But after a few months, people knew not to send mooks to pick fights with me unless they wanted them to come back with bruises and a few less teeth.

Still, every now and then, some new kid sees my body’s stature and how the other guys tend to stay out of my way, and they decide to do something stupid.

That’s the feeling I’m getting from the blonde new guy eyeing me across the exercise yard. He’s not a scrawny guy by any means, but he’s got the look in his eye of someone reckless. You learn to spot that look fast in prison. Some asshole with a chip on his shoulder can be a real problem if you don’t see him coming.

I pretend like I haven’t noticed the guy eyeing me, though, and I carry on like I would any other day. I look to my spotter and jab a thumb to the bench, moving over to spot for him in turn. I might not get tangled up in prison politics, but I’m not an asshole.

“I’m good,” the guy says. “Pushed something too far yesterday, don’t want to risk tearing anything.”

“Smart,” I grunt, and we exchange a short nod before parting ways.

I head to the bathrooms, making my way past the clusters of my fellow prisoners getting what they can out of our short rec time. I’ve come to learn the different gangs around and how to keep myself out of trouble that doesn’t come looking for me.

There are Russians from Brighton Beach who keep to themselves for the most part, even more than the others. There are other Italians here from groups I don’t tangle with. And of course, the Cleaners are here too.

Not directly, for the most part. A few of them have passed through in my time, but they’re good at keeping their kind out. Makes me wonder just how many palms are greased in the NYPD by Don Abruzzi. But they make their presence known in other ways. Word gets in from the outside, and prison politics do what they do naturally.

And when I notice the blonde kid out of the corner of my eye following me, I have a feeling I’m about to see some of that in action.

It’s a quiet walk to the bathrooms, which is never a good sign. Like the calm before the storm, except the calm means there’s no witnesses. And sometimes worse, no guards.

But I step inside, do my business, and as I’m heading to the sink and wash my hands, I hear a series of slow footsteps entering the bathroom, coming to a stop near the door.

He really wants to do this, doesn’t he? I frown. We prisoners would be better off having each other’s backs instead of watching them, but some kids learn the hard way.

“You should think hard,” I say as I face the blonde guy standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, jaw set, “about whether you really want to lose some of those teeth on your first week in here.”

The man’s face twists into a scowl, and he cracks his knuckles. “Tough talk for a marked man.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Look, kid, you’re new. I’m giving you a chance most of these guys wouldn’t think twice about. Turn around and let me wash my fucking hands, and we’ll forget this happened.”

With that, I step toward the sink to wash my hands, but I see his knee move out of the corner of my eye.

Well, can’t say I didn’t warn him.

I reach up and catch the first punch he throws. He’s stopped mid-lunge, and my arm doesn’t budge a hair. He brings his other fist in for a shot to my gut, but I twist his wrist around and thrust him back against the wall. He hits it hard, and I hear his head hit the back of the tile wall. He gives his head and wrist a shake, and I turn to face him as he recovers.

“Don Abruzzi’s got a price on your head, Bruno Lomaglio,” the guy says, rolling his shoulders back like he’s getting ready for the fight of his life. “Didja know that? And man, the Cleaners are payin’ good for anyone who can fuck you up.”

This is news to me. My brow furrows, but when he comes in again, I can see his moves coming from a mile away. He tries to tackle me, and I move in with a quick shot to his gut, then another, and I hurl him to the ground, but he manages to keep his footing. He’s a big guy who clearly works out, but he’s got no finesse. Probably an enforcer.

He comes in swinging, and I put up my fists to parry and dodge the onslaught before I give him a quick jab to the nose that surprises him for a second. That’s all I need. I seize his wrist and twist it around him, shoving him up against the wall and holding him there.

“Tell me some more,” I order him.

“Get fucked!” he barks.

“Wrong answer,” I say, twisting his arm a little more, and he grunts in pain and throws his free arm back, getting a hold of my ear.

He wants to fight dirty.

I don’t give him the chance to do any damage. I spin him around and slam his face into the white ceramic sink, hard, and there’s red on it after he cries out in pain and crumples to the ground.

He doesn’t get back up. I hear him groaning in pain, but it’s muffled. He’s holding his mouth as blood trickles out, and when he moves it, I hear the clatter of a few teeth falling to the ground.

As he starts coughing, I move to a different sink and turn on the hot water, calmly washing my hands off with soap and drying them off on my clothes.

“Tell the guards you fell,” I say as he writhes on the ground. “Ratting and getting thrown in the hole after a botched fight isn’t a good look.”

But I hear the sounds of boots running outside, and I give the kid on the ground an almost pitying look. “Tough luck, kid,” I say, moments before guards burst into the bathroom, and I don’t resist as I’m wrestled to the ground by two guards while two more handle the blonde.

* * *

I’m marching back to my cell with the rest of the inmates, and it’s a thoughtful walk. I narrowly avoided getting put in seg, though I have no idea how. These guards are the kind to throw anyone in there, if they have any excuse. I got lucky.

Though how lucky can I feel? I knew the Cleaners had it out for me, and I’ve been waiting for one of their soldiers to try something on me, but if he’s spreading the word to random thugs, Don Abruzzi must just want to make my life a living hell.

I was careful in that fight. I held back more than I would have when I first got in here. Push your opponent too far, and you both get thrown in the hole, no matter who starts the fight.

At least I’m not entirely alone in here. As I walk past the cells, I glance into those occupied by my fellow Costa soldiers and enforcers. We trade knowing looks, sometimes nods, but we keep a low profile behind bars. I’m not dragging old grudges in here if I can help it.

They have a way of finding me easily enough.

But I know that the Costas in here with me are why I haven’t had even more trouble from our enemies. I was arrested right after the assault on the Abruzzi compound, but word spread like wildfire, and I got word that I was a hero to the mob.

I gave the Cleaners a bloody nose they wouldn’t forget anytime soon. Don Abruzzi vanished off the face of the earth for a while, probably hiding in some manor upstate.

Load of good that did me now. Stolen from my girl, from the only thing that mattered at all. I put it all on the line for her, and though the Costas might think I held my tongue to protect them, it was to protect her. I accepted my punishment to keep her safe. That was the deal.

Nothing can ever happen to Serena. And if I have to do time, then I’m still going to do everything I can to make sure that remains true. If I’d drawn out the court proceedings, turned the Costas on me...

Well, it wouldn’t have been a wise decision, and I’d still have gotten my ass locked up.

When I get back to my cell, I notice two things. First, my cellmate isn’t here. I don’t know the guy very well, so I don’t think much of it, because the second thing is a lot more interesting: I have mail. I smile at the sight of the handwriting on it, because I recognize it.

It’s from Serena.

Serena and her letters have been a ray of hope shining through to this bleak and dark place. The crushing isolation is something that nobody is ever prepared for. Writing letters to prisoners is something so many people on the outside never even think about, but reading the words of someone not in prison is like a breath of fresh air. They’re reminders that we’re still ourselves.

They remind us that the outside world hasn’t forgotten us, and that we’re still loved.

And Serena’s love could keep me going for a lifetime.

Everything I’ve done in here to perfect my body, everything I’ve done to keep myself sane, to keep hope alive, to remember the outside world, it’s all been for her. The sight of her face before getting thrown into the back of a police car is both my dearest memory and what haunts me.

But letters are one way we can stay in touch. She writes to me as much as she can, even though her schedule is so busy running the shop alone again. As I run my fingers along the paper that I know she’s touched herself, as much hope as it gives me, I feel a pang of guilt in the back of my mind.

I stepped back into her life for a moment of joy, only to get snatched away, just when we thought we would be together. Just when things seemed to be going right.

Those are thoughts I have to keep down deep. They’ll consume me if I’m not careful, and I’ve seen guilt and regret eat people alive in here, driving them truly mad. I can’t blame myself for what’s happened.

But I can blame someone.

Detective Price has been my shadow, even since being in here. He haunts me, dropping in from time to time to summon me to interrogation rooms, drilling me for more information about “my case.” He uses it as an excuse to push my psychological limits.

Taking me down earned him a reputation, and since he’s deep in Don Abruzzi’s pocket, that means he’s had more leeway to investigate mafia operations in the Bronx, which means putting pressure on us.

And since I’m both the highest-ranking Costa member behind bars and the living symbol of his success, he has a close eye on me. I have a feeling he’s also the reason that most of my letters out to Serena get mysteriously lost in the mail.

All letters get screened by guards. If something is deemed worth censoring, the letter goes in the trash. End of story. A lot more of my letters get censored than Serena’s, but I know not all of hers make it in, either.

I cherish the ones that do, though.

I unfold the paper and read her fine handwriting.

Dear Bruno,

Things were great at the shop this week! I started a new promo based on an idea Rafaela had. I’m having people bring back a few old shampoo containers to recycle in exchange for a free hand-soap to advertise that new scent I told you I was working on. It’s been a hit so far! Also, Rafaela says hi. She says Nico does too, but you still owe him a beer... or five.

So, I forgot to mention it in the last letter I sent, but we just passed the anniversary of that time we went down to the beach. I know, I know, it’s dumb to keep date-anniversaries, shut up! But when I’m lonely in bed at night, sometimes I picture us back on those sands again. I feel you pulling my shirt up over my head and tossing my bra to the side. My heart starts racing, and I think of your strong hands feeling me up. God, your fingers are so thick, but they were gentle with my nipples... at least, as gentle as they should be. I remember the feeling of your teeth grazing them, and my whole body misses you even more. Do you remember how wet I was for you when you touched me that night? I could never forget how good you felt, and your thick shaft going into me made me feel more whole than I’ve ever felt.

I’ve treated myself a little since you’ve been gone—I’m writing this wearing a new... outfit. I spent a little extra on some lacey pink and black lingerie. I love it! I’m looking down at the way it hugs my thighs, so close to where my legs meet, and all I can think about is you running your rugged carpenter’s hands along them, your stubble brushing up against it before you let that tongue of yours out.

I can’t stop thinking about you, Bruno. I tried to make this letter about the usual stuff that’s going on from day to day, but just thinking about us has got me in a different headspace. As soon as I’m done writing this letter, I’m going to go take care of that, and I’m going to be thinking of you inside me. Then I’ll try another letter and see how that goes! I keep thinking about how much stronger you’ve gotten since you’ve been working out in there, and I wish I could be with you so badly. I wish I could slip into your cell for just one night. I’ve thought about that, and I’ve thought about you doing everything you could ever dream of wanting to do with me. Think about me the next time you’re feeling lonely in there, and remember that I’ll be thinking of you.

Serena

She signs her name with a bunch of little hearts drawn next to it. I smile and read the letter over again, and I feel the beast between my legs stirring at the thought of her. Steamy letters do usually get through, and they’re a blessing.

My mind is already swirling with the thoughts of the things I’d do with my Serena if I had her with me. We don’t get the conjugal visits some married couples enjoy, so letters like these are the best we can do. I’m not much of a writer, at least not like Serena is, but I’ve been trying my hand at returning the favor as best as I can.

I read the letter over a third time before I stow the letter with the rest, under my bed. I’ve barely finished doing so when guards appear at my cell door, and I give them a puzzled look when they open the barred door.

“New cellmate,” the guard says gruffly to me as I stand up, keeping my face stony. A new cellmate could mean any number of things, and after that new guy tried to jump me earlier, I don’t think it bodes well.

“What happened to John?” I ask, but the guard just grunts.

“Transfer.”

Arching an eyebrow, I look to the two guards behind him to see who they’re leading into my cell, flexing my fist.