Chapter 8: Welcome to Redhaven
Palermo, Sicily – Redhaven Prison.
The prison transport bus rumbled to a stop, brakes screeching. A full load of prisoners shuffled off one by one, shackled and silent.
The driver didn't linger. Task done, he slammed the gas and sped away, leaving the convicts behind.
For him, the job was over. For the prisoners, their lives were just beginning—and they wouldn't end until their sentences ran dry.
"Alright, line up! One by one, security check!"
A guard barked orders, baton in hand, herding the new inmates into a single file.
"No talking!"
"Move it—less than five minutes to shower!"
"Keep walking, eyes forward!"
The guards' voices cracked like whips, honed by years in this brutal place. Their eyes swept every pocket, every twitch, hunting for contraband with hawk-like vigilance.
Under that sharp scrutiny, Tommy passed inspection smoothly. Now wearing his freshly issued prison uniform, medical report in hand, he stepped forward to the waiting officer.
"Name and number!"
"Tommy Vercetti. Number 9527."
The man behind the desk—Captain Belick, head of the guards—froze mid-pen stroke. Slowly, he raised his gaze, eyes like cold steel as he sized Tommy up.
"You're the Butcher of Harwood?"
Tommy's lips parted, but Belick didn't give him the chance to answer.
"Listen, kid. I don't care who you were on the outside, or what they called you. In here, you're just Number 9527." Belick's voice was flat, cutting. "And remember the rules. Rule one: there is no hope. Rule two: see rule one."
Tommy read the meaning between the lines. It wasn't just intimidation—there was hostility burning behind Belick's eyes.
Too soon for personal grudges. Too specific to be chance.
The Nostra Family. They'd bought Belick already.
Tommy masked his realization, face unreadable, and returned silently to his cell. If Belick wanted to make a move, let him. Tommy had five years to turn the game around—if his plan went smoothly, Belick would be the one walking out the gates in disgrace.
---
The cell was a narrow, stinking box—barely eight square meters. A rusted bunk bed, a chipped toilet, a dented basin, and a tiny barred vent for air. That was it.
This was Tommy's world now.
His arrival barely drew a glance from his cellmate, Fernando Sucre.
Bald, brooding, clutching a photo of a young woman, Sucre lay on his bed, lost in thought.
Once law-abiding, he'd gambled it all for love—robbing a corner store with an unloaded pistol, hoping to buy an engagement ring for his girlfriend.
A pathetic heist. Wrong target. Wrong plan. Wrong everything.
Now he sat here, clinging to the photo as though he could still feel her touch through faded paper. If he kept his head down, maybe he could shorten his sentence and win back his future.
Tommy didn't interrupt. He had his own priorities.
Through the bars, his sharp eyes scanned the block.
In prison, survival meant dominance. The quickest way to establish it? Find the meanest, ugliest bastard around, beat him down, and make an example out of him.
One fight, one display, and the rest would think twice.
And more than fear—there were points to be gained.
Tommy had checked the system earlier. Even prison was part of the achievement tree. If he claimed the role of prison boss, like he once did in the Mafia, his points would soar. Another gacha pull would be within reach.
But there was something he hadn't realized—his thoughts had shifted. Ruthlessness came easier now. His mind was wired for the law of the jungle: eat or be eaten.
And here in Redhaven, that was the only law that mattered.
---
From the shadows of a nearby cell, someone else was watching him.
"Is that the kid who wiped out more than twenty of our men?"
John Abruzzi, prison gang boss, frowned deeply.
A few days ago, word had come from the outside. Orders straight from the Nostra Family: eliminate Tommy Vercetti.
At first, Abruzzi hadn't understood why his bosses were so insistent. Then he heard the story. Twenty men dead. Ambush or not, the Butcher of Harwood had survived unscathed.
If that story spread, the Nostra would be a laughingstock. No wonder they wanted him erased.
"Boss, leave it to me!" one eager subordinate blurted, puffing his chest.
The crack of Abruzzi's palm echoed loud as he backhanded the fool.
"Idiot!" Abruzzi snarled. "Do you know what they call him out there? The Butcher of Harwood. Twenty armed men, and he killed them all. And you think you're the one to handle that?"
The subordinate shrank back, silent.
Abruzzi's scowl deepened. His rule in Redhaven was already shaky, propped up more by reputation and outside money than real loyalty. If he made the wrong move against Tommy, it could all collapse.
No, brute force wasn't the answer. Not yet.
"Test him first," Abruzzi muttered darkly. "Then we'll see."
And for that, he already had the perfect pawn in mind—someone hated by all, worthless enough to be sacrificed.
The trap was already forming.
And Tommy Vercetti's first day in Redhaven had only just begun.