Chapter 19: My plan
Tommy's plan was simple but effective.
He had Sara quietly buy the alcohol from outside, then slipped blood pressure medication from the infirmary when no one was around. After that, he paid Lance—just a single pack of cigarettes—as the "informant" to report him. That way, the flask would end up exactly where Tommy wanted it: in Belick's hands.
The cigarettes, of course, came from Sara.
The brilliance of the plan wasn't the ingredients themselves, but the psychology behind them. Tommy had deliberately factored in Belick's greed and his personal grudge. Belick's animosity pushed him to seize the bait, drinking the very liquor that sealed his own fate.
And so, the trap snapped shut.
Belick fell. Another enemy was gone.
Tommy sat back in his cell that night with a rare moment of ease. He couldn't share the satisfaction with anyone, not Sara, not Gianna, not even Sucre. But in his heart, he savored the quiet triumph of a plan perfectly executed.
Some rejoiced, while others grieved.
Unlike Tommy's private joy, Warden Hunter was steeped in frustration.
He had always counted on Belick, had even hoped to groom him as a successor after his own retirement. Now Belick had collapsed before his time, "retiring" earlier than the warden himself.
It left Hunter with regret—and a gnawing sense of unease.
He and Belick weren't so different. Both overweight, both carrying the same ticking health problems. Belick, at least, walked the halls every day. Hunter barely left his chair, choosing to drive even for short distances. If Belick could fall, then so could he.
Hunter rubbed his chest and exhaled heavily. A warning, he thought grimly.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. A guard stepped in, saluted, and asked:
"Warden, what about Tommy Vercetti? Do we still send him to solitary?"
Hunter blinked, then waved the question away.
"Forget it. He helped carry Belick earlier. I'm not heartless. Return him to his cell."
The guard nodded, relieved.
"And tighten security," Hunter added sharply. "I don't want any more surprises from the inmates. Not one."
The warden's mind, however, was elsewhere. He had spoken with the doctors earlier—Belick's condition was dire. Between the heart failure and the brain hemorrhage caused by his fall, survival itself was a miracle. If he lived, he would likely be nothing more than a body on a bed, incapable of caring for himself.
Hunter grimaced. It meant only one thing: a new captain had to be chosen, and quickly.
The position wasn't a small one. The right captain could keep the prison stable. The wrong one could plunge Redhaven into chaos. Hunter sighed.
"If only I had someone reliable…"
But most of his officers were either weak or corrupt. Without Belick, the burden of command grew heavier.
"If I can't find anyone inside, I'll have to look outside," he muttered, gazing at the pale moon through his window.
It was going to be a sleepless night.
…
Meanwhile, in the cellblock area, dinner had ended. Normally, the evening was the liveliest time of day. Prisoners walked, talked, traded, laughed—anything to dull the monotony of confinement.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, the cellblock was quiet. Too quiet.
And all because one man had returned.
Tommy Vercetti.
Whispers passed through the block. Some looked away nervously; others watched with open hostility. But no one challenged him outright.
One man, however, felt the weight of his return more than anyone else. John Abruzzi.
Abruzzi leaned forward on his bunk, his brow furrowed.
Wasn't Tommy supposed to be in solitary? Why was he out so soon?
Abruzzi knew Belick well. The man was greedy, yes, but he was also reliable. If he had taken money, he would have done the job. So why was Tommy here? What had gone wrong?
The heat of summer lingered in the prison walls. Even late at night, the cellblock stifled with oppressive warmth. Sweat slid down Abruzzi's forehead as unease twisted in his gut. Something about Tommy's presence set off alarms inside him—like watching a predator circle in the dark.
"Hey, brother, you shouldn't be here," one of Abruzzi's men warned, blocking the way.
Tommy only raised his hands, smiling faintly. "Relax. I'm not here for trouble. Just a small favor."
He raised his voice deliberately, directing it toward the figure inside the cell.
"I'm looking for a few people. A woman named Veronica, another named Nika, and a boy called Little John."
The guard outside frowned. "Why are they all women's names?"
Before he could press further, Abruzzi himself emerged from the cell, eyes cold as steel.
"You. Inside." He gestured sharply. Then, to his men, he added, "You two stay here. Watch the hall. No one comes near."
The men hesitated but obeyed, exchanging uneasy glances as Tommy followed Abruzzi inside.
The boss pulled a white sheet across the bars, cutting off sight from outside. His eyes bored into Tommy's, voice low and sharp.
"How do you know those names?"
Veronica. Nika. Little John.
His wife and children.
Abruzzi's hand twitched toward the knife hidden in his waistband, his expression grim.
Those names were sacred. And if Tommy knew them…
It could only mean one thing.
END of the chapter
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