The first thing they did was strip me.
Not just my clothes though that too. But everything. My jewelry. My watch. The small gold cross Rosa had given me for my last birthday. Even my wedding ring.
"You'll get it back when you're released," the intake officer said, dropping it into a manila envelope with my name written in black marker.
Fifteen years from now. I'd get my wedding ring back in fifteen years.
They gave me a uniform instead. Khaki pants. Khaki shirt. White shoes that didn't fit right. A number: 47829-112.
That's who I was now. Not Isabella Moretti. Not the Queen of the Commission. Just a number.
Federal Correctional Institution Allenwood. Low security, which meant I wouldn't be locked in a cell twenty-three hours a day. Small mercies.
My cellmate was a woman named Keisha Washington. Early fifties, serving twelve years for drug trafficking.
"You're the mob boss," she said when I walked in. Not a question. A statement.
"I was."
