Grant remained silent.
The man pursed his lips and took a step closer, and one of his followers sidled up to Grant, hissing, “Answer the question, boy, if you don’t want to leave Gurnee on a gurney.”
The other youngster cackled like a hyena, and Grant had a feeling this group had used that joke many times before. When the blond leader reached out to stroke Grant’s face, he’d had enough and instantly unleashed a vicious punch, nailing the predator right in his gut. The tall man doubled over, gasping for air.
“Fuck you!” one of his minions cried, swiftly landing on Grant and delivering a sharp blow to his midsection. Despite his groan of pain, Grant gracefully broke free from his attacker’s grasp and sent a glancing blow across someone’s jaw. He couldn’t tell which lackey was which in the melee.
Apparently the leader recovered, because suddenly there were three men raining strikes and punches on Grant’s defenseless body, forcing him onto the ground where they continued the assault. Grant raised his arms to shield his head, feeling his torso on fire from punishing punches to his ribcage. Excited shouting rose up across the yard as the inmates noticed the altercation. Waves of testosterone pulsated as the basest of male instincts played out in the battle.
Then came the staccato of warning shots from the snipers in the guard towers. Blessedly the assault on his body ceased, but Grant soon found himself roughly hauled to his feet by two corrections officers. They quickly cuffed his hands behind his back and led him to the administration building, where a CO dumped him into a chair in the warden’s office.
“This one just got in a fight, sir,” the CO informed his boss. “Inmate Grant Madsen.”
“Wait outside,” the warden instructed, and the officer dutifully left the room. The warden opened a file drawer and extracted a manila folder.
Grant shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to release the pressure from the handcuffs. Noting the absence of other inmates, Grant determined that apparently he would be the only one punished for the fight. His father probably had worked out an arrangement with the COs in Gurnee, some sort of quid pro quo in which Enzo paid them to leave him and his business alone. Some things never changed.
He studied the older gentleman across the desk as he read the file. Warden Raymond Arthur appeared to be in his late fifties, with receding black hair, ruddy cheeks, and a belly protruding beneath the vest of his three-piece suit. Large glasses magnified his shrewd eyes, which now gazed at the prisoner.
“You’re a college graduate and a former naval officer, Mr. Madsen.” Raymond’s voice was weathered from years of smoking cigars. “I wouldn’t expect you to be disturbing the peace on your very first day.”
Grant felt a sharp pain in his ribs with each breath, but he managed to say, “Yes, sir.”
“What was the fight about?”
Swallowing, Grant said, “I had a, um, disagreement with another inmate, sir.”
“Which inmate?”
Grant’s stared straight ahead and remained silent. Evidently nobody at Gurnee knew he was the son of Vicenzo Barberi, the head of a Mafia organization, and Grant intended to keep it that way.
Frustrated by the prisoner’s silence, Raymond coldly ordered, “This is your first day at Gurnee, Madsen, and it seems you’re unable to play nice with the others. Sixty days in solitary. And when you get out, I don’t want to see your face in here again.”
Grant’s heart pounded and sweat trickled down his back at the thought of being locked in a tiny, dark cell for that length of time, but he showed only a resolute coolness as he met the warden’s stare. “Yes, sir.”
“Guard!” Raymond’s voice boomed authoritatively.
“Jesus,” Joe exhaled, bringing Grant out of solitary’s claustrophobic walls and back to the open-aired brightness of the courthouse steps in downtown Chicago. “No wonder you took your father’s protection when you got out of solitary.”
Grant looked down.
Joe chewed the inside of his cheek. “Did they, uh, those guys ever, uh …?”
Grant quickly shook his head. “My dad’s a powerful man.”
Squinting, Joe’s expression became stormy. “He is.” He sighed heavily. “So, how was solitary?”
Grant found his hands balled into fists. It became difficult to breathe as dark walls closed in on him.
“Grant?”
Shaking his head to stop the disturbing images, Grant jammed his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “I’m sorry. You deserve better after taking care of me all those years, after helping to get me into the Navy, after saving my life, really.”
Joe peered at him strangely. “What happened in the hole?”
“Please, sir, please don’t make me tell you what happened.” Grant’s eyes begged right along with his voice. “I understand if you never want anything to do with me ever again. Just please, please don’t ask me to explain.”
Joe was pained as he watched his nephew trembling before him, seemingly on the verge of tears once again. What the hell had transpired in prison?
“It’s okay, Grant. You don’t have to tell me. Of course I want to be part of your life. I …” He looked away, clearing his throat. “I love you.”
“Th-th-thank you.” Grant couldn’t get out the words I love you too, although they were certainly true. Love for his uncle was what landed him in prison in the first place.
“Just don’t cut me out of your life again, okay?” Joe was the one pleading now.
Grant took a deep breath. He would not have to abide by his father’s rules now that he was out of prison. He no longer needed his father’s protection. “Okay.”
“You’re the only family I’ve got.”
His nephew silently agreed. Joe was the only family who mattered to him, the only family with his best interests at heart. His father, brother, uncle, and cousin only looked out for themselves, desperately craving more and more power and dragging down anyone who stood in their way. Grant could not get away from them fast enough.
“So.” Joe smiled faintly, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t suppose you’ve found a place to live yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Or a job?”
Grant shrugged. “Haven’t found that either.”
“C’mon, I know a guy who maybe can help with both.”
Joe stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi. As they passed the Wrigley Building, Grant remembered the excitement of his first cab ride to Michigan Avenue for a shopping trip with his mother and brother. He must have been only five or so, and he’d clutched his mother’s hand while gawking at the tall, elegant buildings. It felt wrong to be back in the city without his mother by his side.
When they arrived at the docks of the Chicago River near Navy Pier, Grant curiously stepped out of the cab, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sunlight off the water.
Joe headed for one of the ships docked by the pier, and Grant read the clapboard sign sitting on shore:
Book Your Architectural Cruise Here!