Chapter 11 - The Shadows Of The Federal Penitentiary
Five agonizing years had passed,
since the heavy,
rusting steel doors of the maximum security federal penitentiary,
had slammed shut behind Carter Davis,
locking him inside a brutal,
unforgiving concrete hell of his own making.
The once incredibly arrogant,
high-powered defense attorney,
who used to wear tailored Italian suits,
and sip vintage scotch in corner offices,
was now absolutely nothing more than inmate number eight four seven two,
a completely faceless,
broken,
and terrified entity drowning in a sea of incredibly violent men.
Every single morning,
he woke up on a rock-hard,
wafer-thin mattress,
his entire body aching from the damp,
freezing air that constantly leaked through the cracked,
grimy window of his tiny cell.
He had lost a significant amount of weight,
his once handsome face now gaunt,
pale,
and covered in a patchy,
unkempt beard that made him look like a desperate ghost.
The prison food was a daily,
revolting insult to his former luxurious lifestyle,
consisting of gray,
tasteless sludge,
stale bread that tasted like cardboard,
and water that always smelled faintly of chlorine and despair.
But the physical deprivation was nothing,
absolutely nothing,
compared to the sheer,
unadulterated psychological torture of knowing exactly what he had lost,
and exactly who had taken it all away from him.
He spent his endless,
mind-numbing days scrubbing heavily soiled toilets in the cellblock,
his hands blistered,
cracked,
and bleeding from the harsh,
industrial chemicals he was forced to use without gloves.
Whenever he closed his sunken,
exhausted eyes,
he did not see the terrible mistakes he had made,
nor did he feel any genuine remorse for the horrific,
unforgivable abuse he had inflicted upon his pregnant wife.
Instead,
his dark,
twisted mind was entirely consumed by a burning,
venomous hatred for Arthur Sterling,
the terrifying titan who had effortlessly crushed his entire existence like an insignificant insect.
Carter blamed the Sterling family for every single bruise he suffered in the prison yard,
for every terrifying night spent listening to the screams of other inmates,
and for the utter,
humiliating destruction of his once promising,
lucrative career.
It was on a particularly cold,
dreary Tuesday afternoon,
while Carter was painfully mopping the filthy floor of the visitor center,
that his miserable,
predictable routine was suddenly,
and drastically,
interrupted.
A tall,
heavily armed guard with a cruel,
mocking smile,
kicked the bucket of dirty water,
sending a splash of gray liquid across Carter's worn,
orange canvas shoes.
"Davis,"
the guard barked,
his voice echoing harshly off the damp cinderblock walls,
"drop the mop, loser,"
"you have a highly classified visitor in the secure consultation room,"
"and he is wearing a suit that costs more than your miserable life."
Carter froze,
his heart suddenly pounding rapidly against his fragile ribs,
a confusing mixture of raw panic and desperate,
flickering hope rising in his tight chest.
He had not received a single visitor in over four years,
as his former friends,
coworkers,
and even extended family members had completely,
and permanently,
abandoned him to the wolves.
He slowly followed the heavily armed guard down the long,
fluorescent-lit corridor,
his chains rattling loudly,
echoing like a death march,
until they reached a heavy,
reinforced steel door.
Inside the stark,
windowless room,
sitting calmly behind a thick pane of bulletproof glass,
was a man Carter had absolutely never seen before in his entire life.
The stranger was impeccably dressed in a bespoke,
charcoal gray suit,
his dark hair perfectly slicked back,
and his cold,
calculating blue eyes dissecting Carter with the precision of a ruthless surgeon.
Carter picked up the heavy,
black plastic receiver,
his hands shaking violently,
his palms sweating profusely as he pressed the cold plastic to his ear.
"Who are you?"
Carter whispered,
his voice incredibly raspy,
weak from years of disuse and constant,
overwhelming fear.
The man offered a thin,
chilling smile,
one that did not reach his dead,
shark-like eyes,
and leaned closer to the scratched glass barrier.
"My name is Julian Vance,"
the stranger replied,
his voice smooth,
cultured,
and dripping with an immense,
hidden wealth,
"and I represent a very powerful syndicate that possesses a mutual,
deep-seated hatred for Arthur Sterling."
Carter gasped quietly,
his eyes widening in absolute shock,
unable to comprehend that someone else in the world would dare to challenge the terrifying,
untouchable empire of the Sterling family.
"Nobody can touch Arthur Sterling,"
Carter whimpered,
shaking his head frantically,
"he is a monster,"
"he owns the judges,"
"he owns the politicians,"
"he will kill you just for saying his name out loud."
Vance chuckled gently,
a dark,
amused sound that filled the small room with a sinister energy.
"Mr. Sterling is indeed a powerful man,"
Vance conceded smoothly,
"but every single fortress,
no matter how heavily guarded or deeply entrenched,
has a fatal,
hidden weakness."
Vance pulled a glossy,
high-resolution photograph from his sleek leather briefcase,
pressing the image flat against the bulletproof glass for Carter to clearly see.
It was a photograph of a beautiful,
five-year-old boy,
with dark,
intelligent eyes,
playing joyfully in a massive,
sunlit garden,
surrounded by heavily armed security personnel.
"This child,"
Vance stated coldly,
tapping the glass with a manicured fingernail,
"is the sole heir to the Sterling throne,"
"and he is the key to entirely dismantling Arthur's impenetrable empire."
Carter stared at the picture,
a sickening,
twisted sense of realization washing over him as he recognized the boy's facial features.
"That is my son,"
Carter breathed,
his voice trembling with a sudden,
dark,
and malicious excitement,
"that is the child she took away from me."
"Precisely,"
Vance whispered,
his eyes locking onto Carter's with a demonic intensity,
"and if you are willing to cooperate with us,"
"we can use your legal paternal rights to rip that boy away from them,"
"destroying Arthur Sterling's heart,"
May you like
"and buying your permanent,
untraceable freedom in the process."
