Sins of the Father: A Paranormal Prison Romance (Sinfully Sacrified Book 1) Read online

  Sins of the Father

  Book One in the Sinfully Sacrificed Series

  Mary E. Twomey

  Contents

  Sins of the Father

  1. Sweating

  2. Chow Line

  3. Visitation Hour

  4. Heart Murmur Tea and Sympathy

  5. Spacious Cell

  6. My Nightlight

  7. The Shifter’s Bed

  8. Lovely Shifter

  9. Reading Auras

  10. Rafe’s Watchful Eye

  11. Pacing and Panic

  12. Guard Dog

  13. Boyfriend

  14. Solitary Refinement

  15. Damage in the Daylight

  16. Haunted Vagina

  17. Blood for Charlotte

  18. First Relationship

  19. The Fae and the Shifter

  20. Secrets

  21. Conan Valentine

  22. Sloan’s Little Girl

  23. Intervention

  24. Confessions of Non-Criminals

  25. First Kiss

  26. Rafe’s Girl

  27. Clairvoyant’s Dream

  28. The Whispers of Fools

  29. The Billboard of Prigham’s

  30. Camera-Ready

  31. A King’s Obsession

  32. Favored and Favors

  33. It’s Coming

  34. Rearranged

  35. Matching Misery

  36. Work to be Done

  Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 Mary E. Twomey

  Cover Art by Emcat Designs

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition: May 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For information:

  http://www.maryetwomey.com

  For Kroi

  Who loves and lives without holding back.

  Sins of the Father

  When parents can send their children to jail to serve time in their place, corruption gets a free pass.

  Arlanna’s life quickly turns upside-down when her father, the feared and revered mafia boss, finally gets caught in one of his many schemes and elects to send her to prison in his stead.

  The broken system was never more than a frustration for her, but now that her freedom has been stolen away, Arlanna makes it her life’s mission to force the parents of the world to see the error of their ways.

  Arlanna knows she can’t endure a life sentence behind bars, paying for a crime she didn’t commit. Forced to take matters into her own hands, she won’t hesitate to find a way to escape her doomed life—no matter who she has to cross.

  1

  Sweating

  Don’t let them see you sweat.

  It was good advice from Daddy when I was off to my first big modeling job, but I’m not sure I can help the trail of moisture creeping down my spine.

  “Arlanna Scarlett Valentine, I’m Officer McGregor,” booms the voice at the front of the classroom.

  Well, I was told it was a classroom, but I highly doubt we’ll be studying classic literature in here. Given the sewing machines bolted into each desk, I’m guessing we’ll be learning one thing only: manual labor.

  It’s all I can do not to wince at the sound of my full name. I’ll bet everyone else in here only had their first and last name announced on their first day at Prigham’s Penitentiary, but thanks to my family’s sordid reputation, I get the middle name treatment.

  The no-nonsense, yet not overly aggressive guard, points to an empty desk in the very front of the room.

  Super. Everyone’s going to be able to stare at me while I fumble through this. I’ve never used a sewing machine in my life.

  Head held high, I remind myself. It’s one of Sloan’s credos that’s always served me well. I miss my bodyguard more than anything or anyone else. He would know what to do in this situation, with too many eyes studying my every move as I walk to my new desk.

  The concrete mocks me from all sides. I’m used to lush carpet and drapery of the highest quality. The floor here and four massive walls are all unpainted grey. A chill radiates from them as if they’re trying to send a warning that no warmth can survive inside of Prigham’s Penitentiary.

  Going from Sloan being never more than three feet from me at all times to suddenly being miles and miles away is enough of a shock to my system. Standing in front of everyone, looking every bit the prisoner I’ve now been sentenced as, adds a whole other level of impossibilities. And the worst part is that I’ll be facing this alone.

  How I wish I could duck away from the hundred or so gaping stares that find me in the too-bright classroom.

  Not a class.

  Workroom.

  I stayed away from new people throughout most of my life. It was too difficult to maintain real friends in a life where private tutors kept me indoors and gossip columnists waited outside our gates, rabid for a picture or a morsel of something they could spin for their readers. I’m not often around so many people my age. Looking around, just about everyone here is in their twenties or thirties, and I’m smack in the middle at twenty-eight.

  Of course, from the acclimation class I had to complete after I was sentenced, I knew as much. We’re all children of criminals. Our parents have paid a sum to the government to have their sentences passed to us—their offspring—instead of doing the time themselves. That window only happens if the child is in their twenties or thirties. After that, they can’t pass their crimes off onto us. We’re in our peak physical ability right now, so we’ll be put to work.

  Starting with sewing, apparently.

  I never dreamed Daddy would do this to me. The Sins of the Father bill was only for people who hated their children and led despicable lives. Daddy loved me.

  I feel so stupid for believing that.

  Whispers splinter out like rippling waves around the room. Though they’re all doing their best to gossip behind cupped hands, their choice words lap at my resolve.

  Mafia princess.

  Conan Valentine’s daughter.

  Four-Thousand-dollar stilettos.

  Criminal.

  Had it coming.

  I roll my shoulders back, refusing to cower. It didn’t faze me when the judge hurled many of those same words my way; it’s not about to make me trip over myself now, even if I’ve had to trade my famous stilettos for steel-toed black work boots.

  I can feel at least ten sets of daggers staring my way now. They stick out because everyone else is more curious than spiteful. The ten glare at me as if it’s my fault their parents ran with the inventor of the criminal element—a.k.a. dear old dad.

  They’ve been waiting for me to get sentenced. I can see it in their conspiratorial glances.

  Head held high. Head held high.

  I’m wearing the same utilitarian, shapeless orange jumpsuit they all were issued, but the stigma of my family’s name infuses a shudder in many. I’ve long since learned to live with the mix of respect and disgrace that people associate with being a Valentine. It earned me the shallowest of friends out in the real world, and in here, it’s going to earn me enemies at every turn. I can already spot a few of them now, and I h
aven’t uttered a word.

  That’s the power of the Valentine name.

  Head held high.

  I make my way to the desk I’m assigned, and Officer McGregor follows me. His blue pants and matching uniform shirt demanding respect, even if he drags his heels while he walks.

  Neither of us are counting on someone sticking their boot out and tripping me. My knee hits the ground, but it’s when my chin bashes on the edge of a desk on my way down that my eyes begin to water.

  Well, it sure didn’t take long for things to escalate from glares to physical contact.

  Tears bloom from the smarting pain, but I refuse to let them touch my cheeks.

  I turn to glare at Officer McGregor, who was a foot behind me and didn’t reach out to keep me from falling.

  Message received: I’m on my own.

  “Alright, alright. Keep it together and make the lunch guards deal with your daddy issues. This is work time, Malrick.” Officer McGregor makes a show of helping me up, frowning at the offender—a guy maybe my age whom I don’t even know. He wears a sneer, not any sort of remorse.

  Sounds about right.

  Daddy’s got a wide reach. There’s no telling how many families he’s screwed over and gotten their kids sent here.

  The officer takes a look at my chin, which I’m pretty sure is bleeding. I know it’ll be bruised. “Jeez. Not a great first day you’re having, eh?”

  As if it’s my fault some idiot tripped me.

  He grimaces at the damage done to my face. “You need to go to the infirmary?”

  I touch my chin. It’s only a few drops; nothing too horrible. If I’m not supposed to let them see me sweat, then I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to freak out over blood, either. “Days spent acclimating or taken off to go to the infirmary don’t count toward time served, so no, thanks. I’ll work, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Officer McGregor purses his lips, and then nods appreciatively, his short brown hair barely moving. “Fine by me.”

  “Could I could get a napkin or something I can throw away to staunch the blood? Wait, this’ll do.” I glare at the jerk who tripped me, swipe some blood from my smarting chin and smear it through his blond hair. “Thanks. Malrick, is it?”

  I make it a point to let him know I’ll remember his name. I was raised right. I know it’s important I show the class that my blood will always come back to haunt them.

  It’s Daddy’s way.

  Officer McGregor crosses his arms, staring down the two of us as the room goes silent. “Are we going to have a problem here?”

  Malrick stands, folding his arms behind his back while he glowers at me. “No, sir.”

  He’s my exact height of five-foot-eleven, but I do what I can to appear taller.

  I miss my heels.

  My posture suggests I’m a giant to be reckoned with. Status or not. Stilettos or not. Bodyguard or not, I won’t be messed with. “So long as Malrick will help staunch any blood so I don’t ruin my new uniform, I don’t have a problem. That sound fair?”

  Officer McGregor lets out a chuckle, but then coughs, as if he didn’t mean to let his amusement be known. “Fair enough, Arlanna Scarlett Valentine.” He draws out my whole name, but this time, it feels like respect, instead of infamy-by-proxy. Then he reaches over and rips the orange sleeve off Malrick’s forearm, eliciting a groan from him.

  Malrick rubs his wrist. The black cuff we all wear in here to mute our magic is something I’m not sure any of us will get used to. “I’m going to get a demerit if the afternoon guards see my uniform damaged like that.”

  The guard shrugs. “Demerit for a damaged uniform, or I can have you thrown into solitary for fighting again. You’re getting off easy.”

  My eyes narrow at Malrick, letting him know he got away with this once, but I’m no pushover. “What a gentleman,” I say airily, dabbing my chin with his orange sleeve.

  Officer McGregor’s hand on my shoulder is heavy. He turns me from Malrick before more swagger ensues, and directs me to my desk. He presses his thick finger down atop the binder next to the sewing machine. “You’ll start every workday by picking up the manual and reading through your instructions. If you have questions, I’m at my desk.”

  The clear vibe I get from this clean-shaven guy in his late forties is a solid, “Don’t have questions.”

  I can respect that.

  Though, truly, I don’t have much choice in the matter. Everyone who works at Prigham’s Penitentiary that I’ve met thus far has been no-nonsense types with tasers and batons on their belts. I know better than to cross them.

  I should probably be intimidated, but the sight of Officer McGregor’s stalwart expression only makes me homesick. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my bodyguard. I wonder if Sloan misses me, or if he’s glad to be rid of the shopping malls I dragged him through. If he’s been reassigned to someone else, will they even care that Sloan loves strawberry shakes? Most of the guards who work for the family are trained to have no personality, and not ask for a single thing. But Sloan’s been by my side since I was born. Will his next charge remember his birthday? Will they even know he prefers strawberry tarts to regular old birthday cake?

  If I’m not there, will anyone care to remember his birthday at all?

  He'll probably be shuffled through Dad’s organization, stuck driving around some self-important lackey who uses Sloan’s intimidating presence like social currency. He’ll become a prop, not a person.

  But he’s a person. Most days, Sloan was my only person. If there’s a word for an uncle who’s also your best friend, that’s Sloan.

  But in a world where parents have the option of paying a sum to the government for their children to do time for their crimes, I have precious little hope of seeing Sloan until I serve my father’s sentence.

  Five years for getting caught running an illegal gambling ring.

  And for being an accessory in the death of a cop.

  And being “mysteriously” tied to too many shipments of Luster Oak.

  That’s not too bad. I’m twenty-eight. I can’t imagine I’ll miss that much in the real world by the time I turn thirty-three.

  At least, that’s the lie I tell myself to get me through the day.

  I flip open my manual and keep my eyes on the pages, willing the burn of unshed tears to go away.

  Sloan will be fine. When I get out, I’ll bake him five strawberry tarts to make up for his five crappy birthdays without me, and it’ll be like this never happened.

  Except it’s happening right now. I’m three days in, and it’s already felt like a month.

  But this is the first day after I’ve been acclimated and shown around, and I’m expected to start earning my keep.

  Thank you, legalized slavery. Sure, I’ll sew you whatever I’m supposed to be making.

  Except I’ve never operated a sewing machine in my life.

  Page one has a detailed layout of my machine, listing each part and its name, so if something goes wrong, I can more quickly identify the problem area. Everyone else is sewing away, and I’m surprised to find pockets of pleasant conversation splintering out all over the place.

  So apparently, we can talk while we work. That’s good to know. Many of them even move their desks closer together and form little circles, their machines humming away while they sew in straight lines.

  Officer McGregor’s black boots are kicked up on his desk. He’s leaning back, leafing through a paperback western, as if he couldn’t care less about the noise, so long as we all do our work.

  I like that.

  Well, I normally would like that, except here, I don’t have friends. I’m persona non grata.

  I stick my nose in my instructions and do what I can to follow the diagram for threading the ancient gray contraption. It’s actually a lot more complicated than the “simple method” the binder brags about.

  I mess up the thread six times before a desk slides toward mine. The dark-skinned girl beside me is probably
around twenty-six or so. It’s hard to tell. Her natural black hair stands out about four inches in spindly, tight curls, showcasing her kind eyes and gentle smile. Her freckled nose scrunches as she makes a face at my machine, as if scolding it for giving me a hard time.

  “I’m trying to follow the instructions, but I can’t seem to…”

  She doesn’t say a word in response to my fretting, but gently takes the thread from my fingers and slowly shows me that I’ve been missing a hook near the top of the machine, which the thread must catch on if it’s going to do its thing.

  Once the contraption is threaded, she flips a page in my manual, frowning. Then she points to the bottom corner, then to the bottom corner on the next page.

  I groan at the small numbers. “A page was torn out? That explains it. Thanks. What’s your name?”

  She reaches over and fishes a charcoal pencil from her desk, then writes on the edge of my manual.

  I squint at the sideways scrawl. “Charlotte? Is something wrong with your voice?”

  “Vow of silence,” comes an answer from two desks down.

  I peer across the way, but the woman with shoulder-length straight black, silky hair doesn’t look up from her machine.