From Damnation to Dominance: Revenge of the Abused Heir

3. Beaten

Back in his cell, a cramped, gray concrete box he shared with three other men, the cold dread began to thaw, replaced by a simmering, directionless rage. He replayed the scene in the mansion over and over in his mind—Catherine’s vicious smirk, Frank’s triumphant eyes, his father’s cold efficiency, Sandra’s betrayal. 

The images were branded onto his consciousness, fueling a fire of hatred that was his only source of warmth.

He was so lost in the toxic loop of his thoughts that he didn’t immediately notice the shift in the atmosphere. The casual chatter in the cellblock had died down. He looked up.

Three men were standing just inside the doorway of his cell, blocking the exit. They were large, their muscles bulging against the fabric of their jumpsuits, their skin a canvas of crude tattoos and old scars. 

Their leader, a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a broken nose, cracked a smile that held no warmth.

“You the new fish?” the man grunted, his voice like grinding stones. “Potter, right?”

Victor said nothing, his body tensing. He slowly got to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He stared at them and notice their intent gazes on him. He wondered what was going on. 

“I'm from the Potter! Who are you?” He muttered, staring keenly at the leader. 

The leader took a step forward, his two lackeys flanking him. “Seems you made some powerful enemies on the outside. Someone paid us a pretty penny to make sure your stay here is memorable and unforgettable.” He cracked his knuckles, the sound like small gunshots in the tense silence. 

Victor's heart seized for a second. He was trying to understand what was going on. The three men right here are heavily huge, he isn't even capable of beating one person. 

I thought Sarah said she had made some arrangements for his protection. Are these the people she was talking about?

“We are assigned to give you a proper welcome.”

There was no time for a warning, no time for a plea. Everything became so fast for Victor handle. 

The world exploded into violence. A fist, hard as a brick, connected with his jaw. White-hot pain blossomed across his face. Another blow landed in his gut, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh. 

He crumpled to the cold concrete floor, curling into a ball as boots thudded into his ribs, his back, his legs.

He could hear their grunts, their cruel laughter. “Think you’re too strong for us, poor boy?” one of them sneered, driving a kick into his chest.

Victor didn’t cry out. He gritted his teeth, swallowing the screams, letting the pain fuel the inferno of his hatred. 

He knew instantly the thugs were assigned by the Potters family. 

He wasn’t just being beaten by thugs; he was being punished by the entire Potter family. They are trying everything possible to make his life miserable. 

His vision began to swim, dark spots dancing at the edges. He clutched the one thing he had managed to hide, a small, smooth stone from his grandmother’s garden he’d kept in his pocket. It was his talisman, his last link to a world that had loved him.

Just as his consciousness began to waver, a new sound cut through the grunts and the thuds of impact.

The main gate to the cellblock screeched open with a violent, metallic shriek, a sound of immense force being applied. It wasn’t the normal, routine opening by a guard. This was an intrusion.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

The voice that roared through the cellblock was not loud, but it carried an impossible, thunderous authority. It was the voice of a man who was accustomed to the universe bending to his will.

The beating stopped abruptly. The three inmates froze, their faces shifting from cruel glee to confusion, then to dawning fear.

Victor, through a swollen eye, saw a pair of exquisitely polished leather shoes step onto the grimy floor. His gaze traveled upward, past the immaculate crease of tailored trousers, to an expensive, dark suit jacket worn over a crisp white shirt. 

The man wearing them was elderly, his hair a distinguished silver, his face lined with age and what looked like a lifetime of formidable will. But his posture was ramrod straight, and his eyes… his eyes were burning with a cold, apocalyptic fury.

Behind him, a cluster of terrified-looking prison officials scrambled, including the Warden, a man Victor had only seen during processing, who now looked as pale as a ghost.

The old man’s gaze swept the cell, taking in the scene—Victor curled on the floor, bleeding and bruised, the three hulking inmates standing over him. The fury in his eyes solidified into something deadly.

He turned slowly to the Warden. His hand, adorned with a heavy, antique signet ring, flashed out. It wasn’t a punch, but an open-handed slap delivered with such shocking force and contempt that the sound echoed like a gunshot.

“You miscreant, how dare you allow them to lay their hands on him. I promise to put a call to your supervisor, you must be punished for this.” Angrily, the old man yelled out, his veins popping out of his skin. 

The Warden, a man of considerable authority in this little kingdom, stumbled back, clutching his face. He didn’t protest. He didn’t shout. Instead, to Victor’s utter disbelief, the man dropped to his knees on the filthy floor, his head bowed.

“Mr. Morales… I… I had no idea… I swear… Please don't report me to my superior.” the Warden stammered, his voice trembling.

Morales. 

Instantly, the name rang a bell in Victor's head.