Chapter 11: The Doctor and the Plot
With both fighters dragged off, the grand drama of the yard came to an end.
Prison guards swung their batons, barking orders, herding prisoners back into their cells like cattle. The tense air still crackled with the aftershocks of violence.
Among the shuffling crowd, gang boss John Abruzzi walked with furrowed brows.
By all accounts, he should have been pleased. One rival, Tea Bag, lay broken and bloodied. The other, Tommy Vercetti, had left the yard bleeding from his arm. Two enemies damaged in a single day—his plan had worked to perfection.
After all, he had orchestrated this clash.
Tea Bag's twisted appetites were no secret in Redhaven Prison. All Abruzzi had needed to do was have his men spread a few carefully chosen rumors about Tommy. One whisper became ten, ten became a hundred, until Tea Bag couldn't resist making a move.
The outcome? Tommy and Tea Bag had torn each other apart in public.
Abruzzi's lips almost curved into a smile. Almost.
Because what he had witnessed in that fight unsettled him.
Tommy wasn't just fierce—he was a predator, ruthless and unflinching. The way he dismantled Tea Bag in front of the entire yard proved one thing: the nickname "Butcher of Harwood" wasn't an exaggeration.
And now, Abruzzi found himself in a dilemma.
His status as prison boss wasn't built on loyalty. It was bought—funded by his gang on the outside. If they cut off the money that kept guards bribed and subordinates in line, his empire in Redhaven would crumble overnight.
Which meant one thing: if his superiors wanted Tommy gone, Abruzzi had no choice but to deliver.
Yet looking at the savage efficiency Tommy displayed, Abruzzi knew this wouldn't be easy. A handful of his trusted men weren't enough to bring down someone like that. Bringing in more bodies would only risk leaks. Too many of his "loyal" soldiers would sell him out the first chance they got.
His eyes narrowed.
"It seems I'll have to use the old plan again."
And his gaze shifted back toward Tea Bag's shattered form. The man might be broken, but he still commanded a gang of simple-minded brutes. Tools, if properly handled.
---
Meanwhile, under heavy guard, Tommy lay on a cot in the infirmary.
"I've already stopped the bleeding. Now I'll need to clean the wound before stitching. It might hurt, so bear with it," said Dr. Sara Tancredi, her voice calm but firm.
She worked carefully, swabbing his forearm with practiced precision. Strangely, though Tommy was a criminal—and had been carried in after a savage fight—Sara didn't feel the same disgust she often had for others.
Professional ethics were part of it. A doctor saved lives, no matter whose. But another reason she couldn't deny was Tommy himself—rugged, composed, with an intensity that drew her eyes against her better judgment.
Her hands, almost unconsciously, grew gentler.
"All right," she said at last, setting down the bloodied swabs. "Now for the stitches."
Tommy turned his head, looking away at the sight of the needle. Sara's lips curved in a teasing smile.
"Really? After everything you just did in the yard, you're afraid of a little injection?"
Tommy chuckled, then let his voice drop to something softer, almost vulnerable.
"When I was a kid, I worked in my father's printing factory. I was small then, clumsy. Made mistakes. Every time I did, my father would strike me with whatever was in his hand. Most often, it was his engraving tool. Sharp. Just like that needle of yours."
Sara's hand paused. Sympathy tugged at her heart.
"So that's it… no wonder you ended up in the Mafia. An unfortunate childhood, and no guidance…"
In her mind, the story fit neatly. A boy scarred by a harsh father, growing into a man lost to crime. She didn't question it. Her impression of Tommy softened further.
But the truth? It was a lie.
Tommy remembered what Ken Rosenberg had told him before the trial. Sara Tancredi wasn't just a prison doctor. She was the daughter of the Governor of Palermo Province. She'd rejected her father's influence, walking into Redhaven out of rebellion, eager to prove she could stand on her own.
That was the truth Tommy had no intention of sharing.
Instead, he spun a carefully crafted story, weaving in false memories, deliberately striking chords he knew she would respond to. And it worked—soon, the sterile infirmary filled with the sound of her soft laughter.
The warmth between them grew. Her eyes lingered longer. His hand drifted, almost touching hers.
Just as the connection deepened, the door slammed open.
A furious roar shook the infirmary walls:
"Where's Tommy Vercetti?! Tell me now—where is that bastard hiding?!"