Pante’s Wrath

The entire prison felt the shift.

Word spread fast—Jayce was out, and Jasper was the reason.

By lunchtime, Pante's crew had tightened their grip on the yard. Whispers followed Jasper wherever he went. Some looked impressed. Others looked terrified. But one thing was certain—Pante wouldn't let this slide.

And then, he made his move.

Jasper had just sat down with his food when a tray slammed down in front of him.

Pante sat across from him, casual, like they were old friends catching up over a meal. But his eyes were sharp, cold, calculating.

Jasper didn't move. He'd expected this.

Pante smiled, picking up an apple and rolling it in his hand. "You know," he said smoothly, "most guys in this place fight for survival. You? You fight for something else."

Jasper said nothing.

Pante's smile didn't falter. "See, that little stunt in the kitchen? That was cute. But now you've got a problem."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You made me look weak. And I can't have that."

Jasper met his gaze, unwavering. "Then do something about it."

Pante chuckled, shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you?" He motioned toward the far end of the cafeteria.

Jasper followed his gaze—and his stomach turned to ice.

Mark.

Two of Pante's men were with him. Close. Too close.

A warning.

Pante's voice dropped to a whisper. "See, Jasper, I don't need to come at you directly. I just need to take away everything you have. One piece at a time."

Jasper's fists clenched under the table. Pante wasn't going to fight him head-on.

He was going to break him—by going after the people he cared about.

Pante leaned back, smirking. "So here's the deal: You back off, or next time? It won't be a warning."

Jasper's jaw tightened, his heart pounding. This was the real game.

And now?

It was personal.