The Hand of Death

A City Men’s Correctional Facility

Inside one of the cells in the Red Block, an inmate in a perfectly pressed prison uniform sat facing the wall clock across the hall.

His eyes remained fixed on its hands.

The moment the short hand struck four and the long hand pointed to twelve, a baton slammed violently against his cell door, startling the inmates who hadn’t been paying attention.

But the man merely smiled and rose to his feet.

An officer with a stoic expression appeared moments later and pulled the cell door open.

“Inmate 9972, you’re free to go.”

For the first time in seven years, Roman Moretti was a free man.

Still smiling, he stepped out of the cell and headed straight to the front desk, where he collected the clothes he’d arrived in and his belongings, including an old button phone and a worn-out wallet.

With everything in hand, he walked out through the prison gates.

Roman slipped both hands into his pockets and tilted his face toward the sky, allowing the sunlight to wash over him.

Freedom.

Oh, the wonderful feeling of freedom.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the warmth before finally opening them.

Around him, other released inmates were being welcomed by their families. Some were embraced by crying wives, while others were surrounded by children who could barely contain their excitement.

Roman watched them with a faint smile.

Of course, no one had come for him. He hadn’t expected them to.

His wife had stopped visiting after his first week in prison, but he understood why. It was better that way.

Seven years ago, she had been pregnant when she accidentally stabbed a minister. She couldn’t afford to go to prison, not with their unborn child depending on her.

So Roman had turned himself in instead, taking a plea deal with the family of the minister.

What kind of husband would he be if he allowed the two most important people in his life to spend seven years behind bars?

He had already been serving time for the crime. There was no reason to let the world know that his daughter was the child of a prisoner, too.

Besides, the Elwood family had been so grateful when he stepped forward to take the blame.

He had no doubt they would be preparing a welcome party for him back home.

The thought alone brought a warmth to his chest.

After seven long years, he would finally get to hold his little girl.

He wondered how much she’d grown. Whose face and smile she took after. Whether she’d recognize him immediately or need a moment to accept him as the father she hadn’t seen since she was born.

Roman couldn’t wait to find out.

With no money for a taxi, he walked the entire way home, occasionally wiping his sweaty palms against his trousers.

The closer he got, the harder it became to contain his excitement.

Then, from a distance, he heard the unmistakable sounds of celebration coming from the Elwood house.

Music. Laughter. People cheering.

His family really was throwing him a

party.

His smile widened as he approached the family house, already imagining the look on his wife’s face when she saw him.

But the moment he tried to step inside, a hand shoved him backward.

Roman turned to find a security guard blocking his way.

“Invitation?”

He stared at him for a moment before knocking the man’s hand aside.

“I don’t need an invitation. This party is for me.” He grinned. “Tell Maren I’m here. Tell her her husband is home.”

The security guard looked him up and down.

His clothes were faded, his appearance rough, and his overall look hardly matched that of someone attending a celebration at the house.

The guard had initially assumed he was mentally unstable.

Now, after hearing him claim to be the lady of the house’s husband, he became even more convinced.

He raised his hand to his earpiece.

“Hey, there’s someone here claiming to be the Ms. Elwood’s hus-”

Before he could finish, Roman caught sight of a familiar figure inside.

Maren!

Without another thought, he pushed past the guard and hurried into the house.

But he had barely taken a few steps when he stopped dead in his tracks.

A little boy came running toward his wife and threw his arms around her waist.

“Mommy!”

Roman froze.

Around the boy’s waist was a sash bearing the words:

HAPPY 5TH BIRTHDAY, NICO!

“Oh, Nico!” Maren exclaimed with a giggle, bending down to straighten his clothes. “Why are you making yourself look like this? It’s your birthday today.”

“Daddy said I could eat the cake!” the little boy replied excitedly before running off.

Roman didn’t move.

Daddy?

He stared at the boy’s retreating figure, then slowly turned his gaze toward his wife.

The woman he’d sacrificed seven years of his life for had a five-year-old son?

His mind struggled to make sense of what he’d just witnessed.

He and Maren had a daughter. A little girl who should be six years old now.

So who was this boy? And who was the father he’d just mentioned?

“There! That’s the intruder!”

The shout jolted Roman back to reality.

Two bouncers immediately rushed toward him.

Maren, who had been about to return to her guests, paused and looked in their direction.

The moment her eyes landed on Roman, her brows drew together.

For several seconds, she simply stared at him.

Seven years in prison had made him look rougher than she remembered. His faded shirt stretched across his muscular frame, while his worn trousers and unkempt appearance made him look nothing like the man she’d once known.

Then her expression hardened.

She raised a hand, signaling for the security personnel to leave him alone.

Roman’s heart lifted and a small smile grazed his lips.

Perhaps she was simply shocked to see him.

Perhaps she needed a moment to process the fact that her husband had finally come home.

He took a step toward her. “Maren-”

“Bring me my cheque book.”

Her words stopped him cold and he watched with confusion as a servant hurried away and returned with a cheque book.

Maren took out her phone, tapped on the calculator for a few moments, then scribbled something on a page.

Finally, she tore it out and held it toward him.

“Has it really been seven years already?” she muttered. “Never mind. Here.”

Roman glanced at the cheque.

$22,000.

He looked at the amount, then back at her. “What is this?”

“Your payment.” She deadpanned.

His brows furrowed immediately and he didn’t take it.

Maren let out an impatient sigh, shoving her calculator in his face.

“Using the minimum wage as my basis, you ran errands for me eight hours a day, five days a week, twenty days a month. This cheque covers your wages for the past seven years.”

She pushed it closer to him, continuing. “I even added a little extra as a gesture of goodwill. Take it and get lost.”