Wallstreet to his fellow inmates, even to the guards. No one used his real name. No one dared disrespect him that way—even local politicians called him Wallstreet out of respect. Respect for what he’d created, even if it wasn’t exactly legal.
Wallstreet smiled, interlocking his fingers on top of the table. His usual spot was at the back of the cafeteria, wedged in the corner of the room to protect his back and side. Two men, looking like matching carrots in their orange jumpsuits, glared as I came closer.
No one could get to Wallstreet unless he wanted them to. Money bought more than respect—it brought longevity in a place where cutthroats and psychopaths wanted you dead.
His wrinkled face and greying hair were manicured and healthy. His eyes were bright and well rested, his jumpsuit ironed—fucking ironed—and dental hygiene top-notch. He was the magistrate in here. Even the prison officials let him be in charge of the criminal population.
Cigarettes? He got them.
Drugs? He got them, too.
Women? He’d hook you up, but offered no guarantee you wouldn’t die of fucking syphilis.
“Hello, Arthur. Lovely of you to join me.”
Prisoner #FS788791 pressed on my shoulder—or tried, seeing as he was like Pee-wee fucking Herman—coaxing me onto the bench. I shrugged him off, preferring to tower over the man at least forty years my senior.
“Name’s not Arthur. It’s Killian.” Arthur had died the moment Cleo had. No one would ever address me that way again. It hurt too fucking much.
I crossed my arms, planting my legs wide, hoping I looked angry as hell and just as terrifying. “Why me?”
“Excuse me?” Wallstreet chuckled, reclining a little and placing his hands in his lap. There were no dirty dishes or trays—either this douche didn’t eat, or his cronies had already cleaned the table.
“Why pick me? What did I do to deserve an audience with His Grace?”
He laughed again, raising an eyebrow. “Why not you?”
“No. Answer the fucking question.” I unwound my arms and wagged a finger in his face. “No cryptic crap. No bullshit. No games of any kind.” Slinging my leg over the metal stool, I sat and splayed my hands on the table. “I’m sitting. I’m listening. I’m giving you exactly three minutes to tell me why the fuck you wanted to see me on the anniversary of my arrival into this hellhole, and then maybe I’ll stick around and listen to more.”
Prisoner #FS788791 growled, “Respect, boy.”
Wallstreet waved him away. “It’s fine, Pat. He’s highly strung. That’s all.” His eyes glinted. “And impatient.”
I nodded. “Hell yes, I’m impatient. I’ve avoided stepping on toes or being roped into sides the full three hundred and sixty-five days I’ve been here. I want to stay neutral and you’re wrecking that by making people think you’re playing favorites with me.”
Wallstreet nodded, his blue eyes bright and sharp. “Fair enough.” Looking at his three stooges, he muttered, “Leave us. I want to talk to the boy alone.”
Prisoner #FS788791 stepped forward. “But what about…”
Wallstreet held up his hand, shushing him in one powerful, understated move.
What I wouldn’t give to have that power. That clout.
“Give us a few, Pat.” When the prisoner didn’t move, Wallstreet added, “I’m not asking.”
The guy grumbled but moved away obediently.
I didn’t say a word, just glared until the fellow convicts moved out of hearing distance. Wallstreet visibly relaxed, which didn’t make sense as he’d just shooed away his bodyguards.
“Killian. Let’s start with something easy. What do you know about me?”
I tensed, willing my heart rate to remain steady and nerves to die a painful death. I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of anyone anymore.
I rolled my eyes. “What is this? A ‘get to know your fellow criminal’ lunch?”
Wallstreet smiled tightly. “No. This is an interview.”
I coughed. “What?”
Wallstreet leaned forward, losing the pretence of conversation, getting straight to his point. “I know about you, kid. I have a one-time deal that will change your life. I can give you back your world—with more power than you could ever dream of—so stop being a little shit. Tell me what I want to know and cut the crap, because you get one chance. If you fuck it up, you’ll die in here, and wish to God you’d stopped flashing your cock and actually listened.”
He breathed hard, running a hand through his thick grey hair. “Now do I have your attention?”
My attention was riveted to his jumpsuit collar and the vein in his neck. My mind was busy picturing how badly he’d bleed if stabbed him with the shank I kept hidden in my cuff. My brain was busy calculating how many seconds the rubber bullets and batons would take before they ripped into my body.
One point five seconds to strike.
Four seconds before anyone understood what happened.
Eight seconds for the guards to aim and fire.
Eleven point nine seconds before any chance of being hit by a rubber bullet occurred.
But if I did, I would have zero chance at getting what I wanted.
Equations.
Algorithms.
Probabilities and calculations.
Math.
Where vengeance was my life, math was my lover. Everything—regardless how senseless, surprising, and damn fucking unfair some things were, math could always find a simple answer. Provide solutions to impossible situations.
Math was ruthless.
Like me.
I nodded. “You have my attention.”
“Good.” Wallstreet cleared his throat. “Let’s start again. How much do you know about me?”
I sighed, preparing myself for a recital. “Everything?”
He linked his fingers again, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed. “Everything.”
“You were incarcerated a while back for white-collar crimes. You skimmed the books on your Fortune Five Hundred company and hid cash in offshore bank accounts. You were only caught because your whore at the time reported you to the tax office, where they audited you and found you fraudulent of not paying taxes.” I took another breath, continuing, “You made your first million before you’d turned twenty-three, had a portfolio of over fifty properties including hotels and commercial investments, along with your chain of highly successful trading companies and investment firms. Not only did you get done for tax evasion, but you’re currently being investigated for negligent trades on behalf of retirees rumored to be worth over eight hundred million, but I happen to know you’ll never be convicted because your bookkeeping skills are impeccable. Not to mention you have politicians and a lot of contacts in your pocket that are above the law.”
Wallstreet smiled broadly. “So you’ve followed my career.”
I never took my eyes off him. “Yes. It’s prudent to know my enemies.”
“I’m your enemy?”
I shook my head. “No, not right now. But you never know how the future will change. Those you hold most dear are the ones that strike the hardest.”
Wallstreet laughed, slapping the table. “Your father really did a number on you, didn’t he, kid?”
I bristled. “I’m not a kid.” The court system didn’t try me as a kid—they’d given me the maximum sentence for the coldhearted crime I committed. I hadn’t been a kid since I was ten years old and started receiving daily beatings and lessons from dear old Pop.
My heart hung heavy, disobeying my strict orders not to feel despair or truly think about what my future meant. There would be no twenty-first birthday celebration or finally losing my virginity to Cleo. I’d wanted to wait until I was legally an adult. I’d wanted to make sure it was truly what she wanted.
My heart fisted in agony.
I should never have waited.
Wallstreet narrowed his eyes. “What’s my real name? Have you managed to work that out yet?”
I nodded. “Your power of attorney kept your name suppressed in every newspaper article. But I already knew it.” I decided to share a tiny sliver of where my passions lay. “I’ve wanted to trade since I was nine years old. You were like a god to me.”
Wallstreet’s face darkened. “Were? Past tense?”
I grinned, enjoying the slight anger glowing in his eyes. He was used to maintaining respect and didn’t handle my teenage look of disdain. “Past tense. You had so much. More than I ever dreamed—but you lost it all. You’re as penniless as me, but I’m better off ’cause I have youth on my side.”
I didn’t believe my words. My age only condemned me to live longer inside these shit-stained walls.
Wallstreet’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I lost it all?”
“The newspaper articles. Magazines.”
He shook his head. “You said so yourself… my bookkeeping skills are impeccable. Don’t you think I hid things? Only gave up what I could afford to lose?”
My heart slowed—it always did when something huge attracted my attention. I could sit in a room with no food or distractions for days while chewing on an elusive equation.
My voice dropped, hiding my eagerness. “Gonna share with me?”