Disgraced Heir Returns

10: NETWORK

The days bled together after that.

Damian stopped counting. Stopped caring about the date. Time moved different in prison. Slow and thick, like wading through mud. Each morning the same. Each night the same. The only thing that changed was the weight in his pocket.

Cutter started talking more. Not much. He wasn't the type for long conversations. But he'd grunt a comment here, a warning there. Things Damian needed to know.

"Don't trust the cooks," Cutter said one morning. They were standing in the breakfast line. "They're all Victor's men. Every last one."

Damian glanced at the kitchen doors. "How do you know?"

"Saw one of them get a visit. Guy in a suit. Paid him cash right there in the yard."

Damian filed the information away. Cooks. Victor's payroll.

"Thanks."

Cutter shrugged. "You're useful. Keep you alive longer."

It wasn't friendship. Damian knew that. It was utility. Cutter saw something in him. Something worth protecting. For now.

Santos was different. Quiet. Watchful. He'd slip Damian notes during work detail. Small pieces of paper with numbers, names, codes. No explanation. Just information.

Damian memorized each one. Burned them in the toilet.

"Victor's moving money again," Santos whispered one afternoon. They were folding sheets side by side. "Big amount. Through a shell in Luxembourg."

"How do you know?"

Santos's eyes flicked to the guard. "Because I helped set it up. Before I got caught."

Damian's hands kept moving. His face stayed blank. But inside, his mind raced. "You know the account numbers?"

"Some of them."

"Write them down."

Santos was already walking away. But Damian saw the small nod. A promise.

___

Kincaid was the hardest to read.

He didn't talk much. Didn't give warnings or advice. He just... watched. Silent. Unreadable. Like a statue in the corner.

But he was always there. In the cafeteria. In the yard. At the right moments.

One day, Damian was walking back from the laundry room. Two men stepped in his path. Big. Mean. Men Damian recognised as Victor's men.

Damian stopped. His fists clenched. He was ready to fight.

Then Kincaid appeared. Out of nowhere. Just stepped between them.

"Move," he said. His voice was flat. Dead.

The two men looked at each other. Then at Kincaid. They moved.

Kincaid walked away without a word.

Damian stood there for a long moment, heart pounding, watching him disappear around the corner.

He saved me.

Damian knew, it wasn't friendship. Nor was it loyalty. It was something else. Something Damian couldn't name.

___

And then there was Pasternak.

Damian met him in the medical wing. The hacker was propped up on a cot, a thin blanket over his legs. Two broken ribs. A black eye that was still purple and swollen.

He looked up when Damian walked in. His eyes were sharp. Alert. Even through the pain.

"You're Cross," Pasternak said. His voice was thin. Raspy. "The one who fought back in the shower."

Damian sat down on the cot beside him. "You're Pasternak."

"I used to be." The hacker coughed. "Now I'm just a cripple in a hospital bed."

"You brought down five banks."

Pasternak's eyes flickered. "That was a long time ago."

"I need your help."

Pasternak stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed. It was a painful sound, cut short by a wince.

"Everyone needs my help in here. I can't walk. I can barely breathe. What do you think I can do?"

Damian leaned forward. His voice dropped. "I think you can still read. Still think. Still remember."

Pasternak's expression changed. The pain in his eyes was replaced by something else. Curiosity.

"What do you want?"

"Victor Hartwell."

Pasternak went still. Completely still. The only movement was his eyes, tracking Damian's face.

"I know what he did to you," Pasternak said slowly. "Everyone knows."

"Then you know what I want."

Pasternak was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded.

"Bring me paper. A pen. And the account numbers Santos gives you."

Damian's heart pounded. "You'll help me?"

Pasternak's smile was thin. Bitter. "Victor's the reason I'm in here. He paid off the judge. Made sure I got the maximum sentence." He paused. "So yes. I'll help you."

He leaned back on the cot, wincing.

"Just don't expect miracles. I'm not what I used to be."

____

The months passed.

Damian learned the rhythm of prison life. The routines. The rules. The hidden dangers.

He learned which guards could be bribed. Which ones couldn't. He learned which corners were safe. Which ones weren't. He learned to read the yard. The subtle shifts in body language. The unspoken signals.

Most importantly, he learned to survive.

He ate when he could. Slept when his body truly neeeded it. Fought when he couldn't avoid it. He gained muscle. Lost weight. His face grew harder. His eyes grew colder.

But he never forgot the names in his pocket. The list. Everyone who betrayed him.

He added new names sometimes. People he met in prison. People who worked for Victor. People who deserved to fall.

____

The guard came for him on a Tuesday.

"Cross. Visitor."

Damian's stomach tightened. Fish. It has to be Fish.

He'd been waiting for Greg's next visit. Weeks had passed since the last one. The silence was getting heavy.

He walked to the visiting room, his mind already preparing. Questions. Updates. Plans.

But when he walked through the door, the chair was empty.

A woman stood near the window. She was tall. Dark hair pulled back. Plain coat. Her face was calm, but her eyes were sharp. Watching him.

Damian stopped.

"Who are you?"

The woman turned. Her expression didn't change.

"Elena Morales. Greg sent me."

Damian stared at her. His jaw tightened. "Where's Greg?"

"He couldn't come. Too risky."

Damian's hands curled into fists. "I don't know you."

She reached into her coat. Slow. Careful. Damian tensed, ready to move.

But she pulled out a folded piece of paper. Held it out to him.

"Read this."

Damian took it. Unfolded it. His eyes scanned the words.

Damian. You can trust her. She's with me. I'll explain later. – G.

The handwriting was Greg's. Damian knew it. The loops. The slant. The way he pressed too hard on the 'G'.

He looked up. "Where did you get this?"

"He gave it to me. Before he left."

"Left where?"

Elena glanced at the guard. The man was bored, scrolling through his phone.

"Can we sit?"

Damian nodded. They sat across from each other. The plastic chairs were cold. Uncomfortable.

"Greg had to leave the country," Elena said, her voice low. "Victor's people were closing in. They knew he was investigating. They put a target on his back."

Damian's jaw tightened. "Is he safe?"

"For now. He's laying low. Building something."

"Building what?"

Elena leaned forward. Her eyes were intense. "A network. Outside. People who want Victor to fall. People with resources. Information. Connections."

Damian's mind raced. "Who are these people?"

"I can't say. Not here. But Greg trusts them. And he trusts me."

She reached into her coat again. This time, she pulled out a small bundle. Wrapped in cloth. She slid it across the table.

"Contraband," she said. "Greg's orders."

Damian looked at the bundle. "What is it?"

"Food. Real food. Meat. Cheese. Bread. Not the slop they serve in the cafeteria."

Damian's mouth watered. He hadn't tasted real meat in months.

He reached for the bundle. It was warm. The cloth was rough against his fingers.

"Why are you helping me?"

Elena met his eyes. Her voice was flat. "Because Greg asked me to. And because Victor Hartwell destroyed my family too."

Damian stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Not here." She stood. "Keep the food. Eat it in private. Don't share it with anyone."

She turned to leave.

"Elena."

She paused.

"Thank you."

She didn't respond. Just walked away. The door clicked shut behind her.

____

Greg called that night.

Damian stood in the phone booth, the receiver pressed to his ear. The line crackled.

"She came," Greg said. His voice was tinny. Distant.

"She did."

"Did you get the food?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Eat it. You need something good."

Damian gripped the receiver. "Where are you?"

"Can't say. Not over the phone. But I'm safe."

"Who is Elena?"

A pause. Then: "She's a private investigator. Used to work for the government. Victor destroyed her career. Ruined her life. She's got as much reason to hate him as you do."

Damian's mind spun. "Why didn't you tell me about her before?"

"Because I wasn't sure I could trust her. Not fully. But she's proven herself. She's one of us now."

"One of us?"

"We have allies, Damian. People who want Victor to fall. I'm building a network. Outside. When you get out, we'll be ready."

Damian's throat tightened. "When I get out?"

"Keep your head down. Stay alive. I'll be back for your next visit. Hopefully with good news."

The line went dead.

Damian stood there for a long moment, the receiver still pressed to his ear.

One of us.

He didn't know if he believed it. Didn't know if he could trust anyone anymore.

_____

The months kept passing.

Damian kept learning. Kept surviving. Kept planning.

He learned that prison wasn't just a place. It was also  a state of mind. A constant low-level fear that never went away. The fear of violence. The fear of disease. The fear of never getting out.

He watched men break. Saw them lose their minds. Their hope. Their will to live.

He saw men get shanked in the yard over a cigarette. Saw men get beaten until they couldn't walk. Saw men get dragged to solitary and come back hollow-eyed and empty.

Prison took everything from you. Your dignity. Your identity. Your soul.

But Damian refused to let it take his.

He held onto the names. The paper in his pocket. The promise of revenge. He held onto Greg. The only person who still believed in him. He held onto Elena. The woman who had lost everything to Victor too.

And he held onto the plan. The one that would destroy Victor Hartwell and everyone who had helped him.

I'm going to get out. I'm going to get revenge. And when I do, the world will regret throwin me behind bars.