The Prison Project (by Bethany Donaghy) novel Chapter 141

Coban’s POV

Walking beside the suits felt like walking into court.

Cold.

Heavy:

Final.

They led me past the main ward, past the nurses’ station, down a small administrative cerridor lined with glass rooms and locked doors.

The taller suit stopped and punched in a code and pushed open a door to a private consultation room. Small.

Sterile. Four chairs. A metal table bolted into the floor. Blind-covered window. A camera in the corner humming quietly.

The suits stepped in like they owned the place, which, I guess, they did.

1 followed, jaw clenched, breathing steady even though heat pulsed at the base of my skull.

The door shut behind us with a sharp, echoing click.

The shorter one leaned against the far wall, arms folded. The taller one took a seat across from me, smoothing out his tie like he was about to conduct a performance review instead of a negotiation about murder.

“You do realise,” he began coolly, “that there were simpler ways to request a meeting?”

I said nothing.

He gave me a pointed look. “Breaking your own nose for attention, storming through the medical wing covered in blood and having one of your nurse toys call our office?”

“I didn’t storm anything.” I grunted, taking the seat opposite him. “I walked.”

His lips twitched. “You clearly walk like a bull through a china shop, Mr. Santorelli.”

The shorter one snorted softly. “We told you last night that we would bring Newman to you when we were ready. Not a second sooner.”

I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees.

“And I’m telling you now,” I growled, “that I’m ready to get the job done.”

Both men exchanged a look. The kind of look that said they were amused by me. Entertained by me.

But I wasn’t here for their fucking entertainment.

The taller one steepled his fingers. “Why the sudden urgency?”

“You know why, I shot back. “The new Mix-Up bullshit. You’re splitting everyone. You think I’m letting you hand Margot off to some psycho for a week?”

“Ahh, this is about Miss Belle,” he corrected casually. “A little pretty one you have… but yes I’m afraid that everyone must be seen to be shuffled, there isn’t much we can do about that Coban.”

“No,” I snapped. “She doesn’t leave my cell.”

I let that hang in the air. Weighty. Real.

Because I meant it.

I’d tear this place apart before I let them drag her into some stranger’s cell.

The shorter suit pushed off the wall and came around to the table, leaning his knuckles against it. “Do not mistake your role here, Mr. Santorelli. You are still a participant who must be seen as complying with the

experiment. We can only help so much before questions are asked…”

“But for your sake, I decide whether Newman breathes or not,” I cut in.

That earned silence.

Sharp.

Thick.

The taller suit cleared his throat, but he wasn’t smiling now. “You kill Newman when we say, not when you want to. That was the deal discussed.”

“No,” I countered. “The deal was that I’d do it to protect the image of the project in return for my terms being met… you two need me a whole lot more than I need you right now.”

The shorter one sighed steadily. “So you’ve thought about your terms? Enlighten us then and we will see what can be done?”

I leaned back in my seat, letting my head tilt slightly as I wiped a trace of blood from my lip with my thumb.

“You want Newman dead,” I said, voice like gravel, slow and certain. “You want it to look like inmate retaliation. Clean. Quiet. Convenient.”

“That was the general idea,” he replied with a cool shrug.

“Then bring him to me on the mix up tonight,” I demanded. “Bring him to me today and I’ll handle it.

The shorter suit crossed his arms again. “You’re being impatient, Santorelli.”

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