Lucas began to read, his excitement quickly curdling into disbelief.

"This report details eight failures, Father," Lucas said, his voice tightening. "Eight assassination attempts since his arrival. The first involved a knife in the communal showers; his tall guard, Jason, took a glancing cut to the shoulder while disarming the attacker. Another time, a garrote attempt during a cell block transition was spotted by a man named José, who yelled and tripped the assailant."

Lucas flipped the page, his eyes scanning the chilling details. "We tried poison—Cyanide—in the mess hall dinner on two separate occasions, but both failed. The report notes that an informant from the kitchen staff alerted Antonio, who managed to switch Ethan's tray just before he ate. Because of this, the report specifies that Ethan now only eats food prepared by his own men, using their own limited supplies."

Lucas slammed the folder down briefly, then picked it back up, his hand shaking. "We tried embedding razor blades in his mattress, but José's crew found them during a routine 'inspection'. And the physical assaults are the worst part. During a yard exercise, a coordinated attack by three large inmates was met by Jason and José, who fought them off, sustaining several bruises and José even cracked a rib."

He pointed to a blurry photograph. "Another attempt was a stabbing in the study area. Antonio physically tackled the attacker, resulting in a deep gash on Antonio's arm. And finally, a firebomb in a storage room during a planned chaos—Ethan was protected behind a human wall formed by Jason, José, and Antonio, who all took minor burns to shield him."

The report noted the increasing difficulty, the failures were almost entirely attributed to the quick, brutal, and loyal defense provided by Jason, José, and Antonio, who were clearly sustaining injuries protecting

Lucas slammed his fist onto the desk, his face purple with rage. "Eight times! Eight attempts! Who are these sons of bitches that dare to mess up everything! Where did they come from!"Lucas slammed his fist onto the desk, his face purple with rage. "Eight times! Eight attempts! Who are these sons of bitches that dare to mess up everything! Where did they come from!"

Vincent looked at his son, his eyes cold and hard, a stark contrast to Lucas's flushed anger. "That's why I told you it's not that simple, Lucas. I didn't want to tell you, but I knew from the day he was captured along with Jason. Jason is his father's old bodyguard; it's normal that he would defend him to the death. But these other two..." Vincent shook his head slowly. "I don't understand it."

Vincent pulled another folder, thinner than the first, from his desk drawer and slid it across the expensive mahogany. "Here is the dossier on José and Antonio. Read it."

Lucas tore open the folder and began reading, his eyebrows rising higher with every sentence.

"My God, Father," Lucas murmured. "This is... a whole different level of filth. José 'El Lobo' Ramírez, assault, armed robbery, multiple counts of murder in the third degree... Antonio 'El Toro' Castillo, convicted of drug trafficking, kidnapping, grievous bodily harm."

Lucas looked up, his face pale beneath his initial anger. "They're not just street thugs. They're connected to a gang, deep ties to the Sinaloa Cartel in Mexico. They ran protection rackets and distribution networks here in the northeast before they were locked up. Their criminal record alone is pages long, full of brutal violence, turf wars, and total disregard for human life."

He slammed the folder shut, appalled by the sheer criminality but still confused. "A load of absolute garbage! What do these monsters have to do with Ethan, Father? Why are they putting their lives on the line for a white-collar genius?"

Vincent rubbed his forehead roughly, a vein throbbing near his temple. His frustration was a tangible heat in the room.

"I honestly don't know, son. I've paid hundreds of thousands—no, millions—trying to get reliable information. The internal wires we've sent... nothing. The contacts we paid to organize the hits in the showers, the yard, the kitchen—they failed, and now they've gone silent."

Vincent leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh, controlled snarl. "It's the damned Mexicans and their stupid pride. I've paid over a dozen inmates to flip on him. They won't talk, they won't change sides, they simply take the beatings or the money and stay loyal to the new power structure. I cannot buy the only intel that matters."

Vincent suddenly roared, pushing himself violently away from his desk. "In total, across those eight pathetic attempts, I paid 2.4 million dollars to fail! And I still have nothing! Damn it, this is a nightmare!"

He grabbed a heavy, half-full bottle of expensive Scotch from the drinks tray and smashed it against the fireplace mantel. Glass and dark liquid exploded across the fine stone and hardwood floor, the crash deafening in the otherwise silent office.

Lucas watched his father's rare display of uncontrolled fury, then saw his opportunity.

"Father," Lucas said, his voice quiet but steady. "I have an idea that could help us greatly."

Vincent, breathing heavily amidst the scent of spilled whiskey, wiped his hand across his mouth. "Tell me the idea, Lucas. I swear, if it's a stupid one, I don't have the patience right now to deal with nonsense."

Lucas, unfazed by his father's violent outburst, stepped carefully over a shard of glass.

"Father, think. Who was it that had Ethan captured in the first place?" Lucas asked, rhetorical and precise. "A friend told me he had a conflict with Congressman Vance. You don't need to keep wasting money trying to poison him inside. Why don't you go to Vance and tell him exactly what's happening? You know, the eight failures, the protection, the prison turning into a private army."

Vincent struck his own forehead with the heel of his hand, a sharp thwack. "It's true! You're right! The bastard tried to murder him; he must be more than happy to see the prick dead. I'll go immediately to talk to the Congressman."

Lucas quickly stepped forward, grabbing his father's arm. "No, not like that. This subject is important; you need to use tact. Besides, you could gain a major ally here. He needs election funding and sponsorship, and we need permits and favors for our companies. Don't limit this just to Ethan. We can take a massive slice of the pie here."

Vincent looked at the determination in his son's eyes, the anger in his own receding into cold calculation. A cruel smile slowly spread across his face.

"Go prepare the car, Lucas," Vincent said. "And call my financial advisor. We need to decide exactly how much this alliance is going to cost."

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