Thirty feet beneath the surface of the earth, the state penitentiary’s subterranean isolation block existed in a vacuum of absolute, heavy silence. The frantic chaos of the upper world—the red flashing alarms, the intercepted data lines, and the impending federal raid on the Salvatore penthouse—could not penetrate the thick, reinforced concrete walls of cell number four.
Leo sat perfectly still on the edge of the narrow, rusted iron bunk. His unbuttoned white shirt hung loosely from his sharp shoulders, exposing the raw, darkening brand of Marco Rossi’s teeth marking the sensitive column of his throat. He didn't move. He didn't blink. He simply stared at the heavy steel lighter resting in his palm, flicking the wheel over and over, watching the orange flame flare and die in the deep shado
