The mess hall was a sea of blue denim and fluorescent hum, a place where the air was thick with the smell of scorched oatmeal and the unspoken threat of violence. In Blackwood, the mess hall wasn't for eating; it was for counting heads.
Donny sat at the center of the South Block table. To his left, Johnny "The Radar" Moretti kept his head down, but his eyes were darting, mapping every movement of the guards and the "New City" loyalists. To his right, Big Lou "The Shield" Marciano sat with his arms crossed, a mountain of muscle that made the inmates from the other tiers give them a wide berth.
"Twelve o'clock," Johnny whispered, his voice barely audible over the clatter of plastic trays. "Artie is at the door. He's looking at the clock."
Donny didn't look up. He knew the rhythm. Artie Sterling, Valenti's Radar, was a man of schedules. If he was timing the room, a move was coming.
A moment later, the double doors at the far end swung open. Paulie Valenti walked in, flanked by Vince "The Viper" Greco. Valenti didn't wear the ragged, cuffed blues of the South Block. His uniform was pressed, his hair slicked back—a man who had traded his neighborhood roots for a seat at the table of the men who tore it down.
Valenti didn't go to the food line. He walked straight toward the center of the room, stopping ten feet from Donny's table.
"Look at this," Valenti said, his voice carrying through the sudden silence of the hall. "The King of the Dust. Still sitting on his throne of scrap metal."
Big Lou started to rise, his face turning a dangerous shade of red, but Donny placed a steady hand on his arm.
"Sit, Lou," Donny commanded.
"He's talking about our home, Donny!" Lou hissed, his loyalty vibrating in his chest. "He's talking about the block like it's a landfill."
Valenti laughed, a sharp, erratic sound. "It is a landfill, Lou. I sold the dirt, I sold the bricks, and I sold the memory. There's a luxury tower going up right where your mother used to hang the laundry. They call it 'The Sterling Heights.' Fitting, isn't it, Artie?"
Artie Sterling nodded once, his expression as cold as the concrete floor. "It's just progress, Paulie. Efficiency over sentiment."
Donny finally looked up, his eyes locking onto Valenti's. "You can sell the bricks, Paulie. But you can't sell the people. You're a King with no kingdom, just a ledger full of names of people who hate you."
Valenti's smile vanished. He leaned in, and behind him, The Viper tensed, his hands curling into fists. "Hate doesn't pay the bills, Donny. And honor doesn't keep you alive in here."
Valenti gestured toward the guard tower where Sarah Miller was stationed. He didn't point, but the implication was a razor blade. "I hear the guards are getting restless. I hear some of them are even... soft. Maybe it's time for a change in staff. Marcus Holden is already talking to the Warden about 'security concerns.'"
The threat hit Donny harder than a punch. Valenti wasn't just coming for the Block; he was coming for Sarah. He was using his Legal Shield to dismantle the only light Donny had left.
"Stay away from the towers, Paulie," Donny said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal growl.
"Or what?" Valenti smirked, stepping back into the safety of his crew. "You'll write me a poem?"
As Valenti's crew turned to leave, the Viper lingered for a second, catching Donny's eye and mimicking the motion of snapping a neck.
Johnny leaned in closer to Donny. "The Radar is picking up a storm, Boss. They aren't just squeezing us anymore. They're trying to cut the line."
Donny looked up at Sarah. She was staring straight ahead, her face a mask of stone, but her grip on her baton was white-knuckled.
"Then we stop playing defense," Donny said. "Lou, get the word out. No more jokes. We're going to war for the sunset."