Sweet Prison: Chapter 9

Nuncio Veronese’s Funeral, Boston

(Zahara, age 18; Massimo, age 35)

Glaring stares.

Hushed whispers.

Dozens of eyes laser into my back as I stride through the gathered crowd toward the white casket at the graveside. Fucking vultures. They might be standing still, but I feel like they’re closing in on me. Every nerve, every atom within me is oscillating on high alert. At least in prison, you know who your enemies are, but here, amid the crème de la crème of the Italian Mafia, all bets are off. Some of the faces I don’t recognize, but the majority of those present, I remember.

There are more than three hundred people here. The higher-ups are all gathered close to the casket. Men in their Sunday best and women flashing extravagant fucking jewelry. From their attire, you’d think they were at a gala, not a goddamned funeral. Typical. Birthdays and funerals have always been the most elaborately commemorated events in Cosa Nostra. The majority of the foot soldiers stand at the back. The elite do not mingle with plebs; they ignore the men who actually do all the heavy lifting for the Family. It wasn’t like that when my father was the don. And it sure as hell won’t be once I’m back.

Low murmurs follow in my wake as the mourners split, letting me pass while my two guards trail a step behind me. I catch my name whispered a handful of times. Most of the people, however, just stare at my prison uniform and cuffed hands in confusion. With their self-centered lives, fifteen years is apparently enough time to wipe a person from their memories.

The warm, midmorning sun is shining down on the casket spray, wreaths, and floor bouquets set up around the grave site. The bulk of the floral arrangements are white, contrasting with the wall of dark attire surrounding the deceased. It’s a beautiful day for a funeral. Unlike the day they laid my mother to rest. I heard it rained, but I was confined to the hole for causing a riot in the chow hall. The day before the funeral, I admittedly lost my shit because the assfucker of a warden denied my request to attend her service.

There’s no sadness, no grief, no regret that haunts me as I get closer to the casket. Nuncio never liked me, and I most certainly never liked him. He was simply a means to an end—one of many—a cog that was supposed to help me reach my goal. That’s all he was to me. All anyone ever is.

I stop at the edge of the burial plot and let my eyes roam over the people clustered close by. There is no missing Batista Leone; he’s off to the side—face stoic and spine ramrod-straight. Salvo is just behind him, wedged between Tiziano and Brio. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a barely perceptible nod. I return it and then take in the rest of the crowd. Several capos and other members of the Family stand with their heads respectfully bowed. Adriano Ruffo is among them, but he’s chosen a position a bit further back. Next to him is a short-haired blonde, wearing an obscenely short dress and an elaborate net-like black veil. It must be his wife. But directly across from me, on the other side of the raised casket, are the tops of two women’s heads. The enormous flower arrangement is blocking my view of them, but they must be my stepsisters. I take a step to the right so I have a less obstructed sight line.

I recognize Nera right away. She was five the last time I saw her, but with her almond-shaped eyes and soft cheeks, there is no mistaking the girl I often caught sneaking into the kitchen to get cookies. It was all so long ago—in another lifetime.

My gaze shifts to the woman on the left.

And then… and then, I stare.

Like everyone else, she’s dressed in black, but something about her captures all of my attention. My eyes travel down her body. She’s wearing an elegant blouse with long lacy sleeves that gather at her wrists, and tight tailored pants that accentuate her hourglass figure. The tips of black stilettos peek from beneath the hem of her pants. I look back up, taking in her light-brown hair, partially swept into an updo at her nape while the rest of her locks cascade around her face in soft shiny waves.

That’s Zahara, the voice in my head whispers.

Don’t be ridiculous. I give him a mental dope slap.

It’s her.

No—this beautiful, sophisticated young woman can’t be my little spy. She must be one of Nera’s friends, offering her support while my stepsister is grieving. This can’t be Zahara, can it? All this time, I’ve pictured her as a gangly teen.

Suddenly, she lifts her head and we lock eyes. A perfect storm explodes inside my mind. Air catches in my lungs, but the damn things won’t compress to let it out.

I. Can’t. Breathe.

Her eyes go wide with surprise. And recognition.

It is her.

The first thing that shoots through my mush of gray matter is: Where are her pigtails? Unlike with Nera, I don’t remember much of Zahara as a child. She was only a toddler who tended to get in the way, so I stayed clear. But I remember the pigtails. And for whatever fucked-up reason, I expected an older version of the same.

I can’t fucking tear my eyes away from hers. Her gaze holds much more than a mere realization that she’s looking at Massimo Spada, a largely forgotten man, standing at the graveside. There’s knowledge. Awareness of who I am. Not in the sense of “shadow leader of Cosa Nostra” or “asshole with a chip on his shoulder stuck behind bars.” Nope, this is the only soul who has peered deep inside mine. Among more than three hundred mourners here, she’s the only one who knows me. A man.

My throat suddenly feels very dry. I try to swallow, but can’t. The only thing I seem to be capable of is staring at her. The girl.

No, the woman. The woman who unknowingly found a way.

To save me.

From myself.

In my long quest to make every person from my old life forget about me, I’ve, somehow, almost forgotten myself. But all those things I told her about myself in my letters, things that were supposed to be simple misdirection to hide the real message in my notes, they weren’t random fillers. Every single detail was true. And if she hadn’t asked, I might no longer remember the answers. In prison, everything that Massimo Spada used to be was stamped out. Forever, I thought. But she brought me back. And now, looking into her eyes, I realize that if it wasn’t for her letters, the person who I was—I am—would have been truly lost.

I know you, her gaze says.

More than twenty feet separate us, but it feels like she’s right here, next to me.

I know who you are.

She does. Maybe even better than I do.

I know you.

The apprehension and hypervigilance that’s weighed me down since I stepped out of the prison van suddenly fade away. Inquisitive looks from the Cosa Nostra members all around don’t burn into my back anymore. I no longer feel the need to wrap my hands around their necks and squeeze until they fall limp at my feet. For the first time in fifteen years, I am at peace.

The priest starts talking. The cemetery staff begin lowering the casket. I don’t even glance at it. My entire being seems to be bewitched by my little spy. She is so fucking beautiful. I try to take in the rest of her, only then noticing the unusual discoloration around her eyes and on her forehead. A birthmark? Did she have one and I don’t remember? Or is it a scar? Whatever it is, it doesn’t take away from her beauty. I’m still struggling to breathe because of her effect on me, despite feeling serenity for the first time in years.

Zahara blinks and quickly looks away. Her eyes anchor to the ground as if she’s trying to hide from me and in that instant, the blissful peace disappears.

Gritting my teeth, I make myself refocus on Nera, while my higher reasoning slowly kicks in. She’s watching me from the other side of her father’s casket with trepidation in her eyes. I hold her gaze, clinging to it with everything I have, all to prevent my eyes from sliding back to Zahara. Rapidly going over all the possible solutions for this new predicament we’ve landed in.

With Nuncio dead, Batista Leone will step in to take over the Family. He’s been waiting for that since my father’s death. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the slimy motherfucker himself was actually behind Nuncio’s assassination. With my parole denied, I’ll be stuck behind bars for close to four more years, serving the full extent of my sentence. Rage washes over me anew, and I barely keep my shit together. Patience. And focus. I won’t allow anyone to take away what’s mine. No matter what.

The priest finishes and a few Family members approach to throw dirt on the casket before leaving the cemetery. Then, the burial staff start pouring soil into the grave. Keeping my eyes on Nera’s, I walk around the burial site until I’m standing in front of her.

“Munchkin.” I give her a slight nod.

Nera gapes at me for a few heartbeats, then takes a step closer and tentatively wraps her arms around me. “Hello, Massimo.”

Her action surprises me. I expected indifference or even plain disregard. But my resolve doesn’t waver. The new plan I’ve concocted revolves around her. She’ll probably hate me for it, but I don’t give a fuck.

“Let’s go, Spada,” the guard barks from behind me, yanking my arm.

I take a step back, pulling out of Nera’s embrace.

Keeping my eyes from sliding to the left, where Zahara is standing, is a losing battle. I never stood a chance. Is she real or simply a figment of my imagination? My fingers itch to reach out and brush her hand, to confirm she’s actually flesh and blood. Why won’t she look at me again?

She’s scared of you.

Scared? Doesn’t she know she’s the only person on earth who has no reason to fear me? She knows me.

My point exactly.

Fuck.

“I said, let’s go.” The guard’s grip on my arm tightens.

I force my attention back to Nera. “We need to talk.”

“We’ll come tomorrow.”

“Just you, Nera,” I say.

Zahara’s body tenses. She tries to hide it, but I spot the look of utter betrayal on her face. I swallow the guilt. This game just got too dangerous, and I won’t risk her being caught in the crossfire and getting hurt. She’s out.

I squeeze my hands into fists, fighting the urge to take another step closer to her. I mustn’t. With these fuckers watching my every move, I can’t risk showing even an ounce of affection. It would immediately raise the vultures’ suspicions.

But I would kill to see her eyes again.

My clever little spy.

My ally.

My… friend.

The restraint I’ve been holding on to crumbles.

I raise my cuffed hands and tenderly caress her cheek with my knuckles. “Hello, Zahara.”

She doesn’t even look at me.

“Now, Spada.” The guard tugs on my arm, and I let my hands fall away from Zahara’s face. Then, I turn around and head toward the prison transport.

Walking away.

Away from the fragile peace that has found me in the most unusual place. Tranquility that lasted barely a few minutes, but I’ll remember it for years to come.

The urge to look over my shoulder… to steal just one last glance… just a tiny little glimpse, is ripping me apart. Somehow, someway, I manage to prevail. I can’t risk giving myself away. Can’t draw attention to her. Someone who shouldn’t might easily see.

As soon as I get in the vehicle, the door slams behind me. The thud echoes through the cab like the drop of a heavy granite slab over a tomb. Sealing me inside. With one path forward.

Will she still remember me after the letters stop?

No, that pesky voice at the back of my head admonishes. And it’s better that way.

For the first time in years, I agree with the asshole. Forgetting me would be a safer bet. For her.

Just you, Nera.

Massimo’s words ring in my head as I hurry along the dirt path toward the parking lot. My vision is so blurred by tears that I can barely see where I’m stepping. I lift my arm and brush the wetness away with my sleeve.

That bastard.

“Zara! Wait!” my sister calls after me.

I quicken my pace. I’m in no shape to talk with her now. The only thing I want to do is curl up in a dark corner and cry in peace.

My arms are still covered in goose bumps after coming face-to-face with Massimo for the first time. I didn’t expect him to be here. If I knew he was going to be at the funeral today, I would have put foundation. The rash on my face afterward would have been worth it. It might be stupid and vane, but I always saw myself wearing makeup whenever I imagined meeting him. I wanted him to take that first look at me and find me pretty. Instead, I stood silent like a moron because I couldn’t think of anything to say. Something else I could have prepared in advance. But I wasn’t prepared. Wasn’t ready. Years of waiting… longing to meet him at last, and I still wasn’t ready.

Saying that he looks different from what I imagined is the understatement of the millennium. I expected a lean guy with an athletic built, similar to the young man I saw in Mom’s pictures. So when I noticed the mountain-of-a-man in a prison uniform, covered in tattoos and with his head shaved, my mind blanked. But then, our gazes clashed.

And I knew.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and the moment I saw his—clever, ruthless, scheming—I knew. That terrifying-looking man is my “pen pal.” Even without the prison uniform… Even if there were a dozen other men around… I still would have recognized him.

When he made his approach toward Nera and me, my heart was beating so rapidly that I was afraid I was going to have a heart attack. In a way, I’ve always perceived Massimo as somewhat unreal. Untouchable. Out of reach. Maybe that’s why I found it so easy to open up to him. Seeing him here, in front of me, as a real flesh-and-blood entity, almost made me faint. And my stupid heart sang with joy.

Until he crushed it with one simple sentence.

Just you, Nera.

I should have known.

With Dad gone, Massimo doesn’t need me anymore. I won’t have inside access to whoever takes over the Family. Therefore, I’m no longer of any use to him.

“Zara?” Nera catches up with me in the parking lot. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” I grab the door handle and slip inside her car, dropping onto the passenger seat.

She watches me for a few seconds through the window, then rounds the hood and gets behind the wheel.

“It’s just the two of us now.” Her voice is soft as she stares at the crowd still lingering beyond the windshield. “Would you like to stay at my place for a bit? I don’t like the idea of you alone in that house.”

I nod.

Far to the left, the prison transport van has just pulled out of the parking lot and is turning onto the main road. We both follow it with our eyes until the vehicle disappears around the curve.

“What do you think Massimo wants to talk with me about?” Nera mumbles.

“You’ll find out tomorrow, I guess.”

I have no idea what he wants to discuss with my sister. Maybe he wants to lay a claim to our family’s properties. That would fit with his cunning methods.

I don’t fucking care.

He already claimed the only thing I care about. My heart.

And he squashed it.

I should have noticed that something was off.

As soon as I set foot in the yard, a familiar sensation tingled at the back of my neck, but I was distracted after my first glimpse of Zahara. The impact of that meeting left me feeling like the ground had been pulled from under my feet. Her eyes… I couldn’t stop thinking about that look in her eyes, the one of stark, unflinching recognition. Preoccupied as all hell by that, I completely neglected my screaming instincts. I was halfway across the yard when the warning finally registered.

Too few inmates.

Usually, there’d be over a hundred men outside during the rec hour. Everyone from Block D. Just the suckers locked up in solitary or those taking part in an online class would miss their time outdoors. But as my eyes scan the yard, I count barely twenty.

The group of Chinese prisoners I struck up a solid pact with is not in their regular spot. Their bench in the far left corner is empty. The Lenox boys typically play basketball on the court, but they are nowhere in sight. Two of Kiril’s guys who’ve stuck by me after his departure aren’t here, either. Basically, all of my staunchest allies in this dump are absent from the yard.

I look up at the nearest guard tower. Normally at this time, there are two COs with guns at the ready against the side railing. Neither of them are there. And no other guards are hanging around inside the perimeter.

Fully alert, but continuing my stroll as if nothing’s wrong, I eye the men who are present. What direction will the first strike come from?

Fights and random attacks are a regular occurrence around here. Small skirmishes or all-out brawls, petty squabbles or serious vendettas—they tend to share a few common traits. One, they are rarely premeditated. And two, prison personnel is never involved.

Right now, everything reeks of a setup.

Someone wants me dead.

That’s nothing new. Many have tried to off me, hoping to take over my reigning position at the zoo.

But this, this speaks of desperation. Whoever wants my head, wants it bad enough that they’ve found a way to bring COs into the mix. Or, rather, take them out.

I’m nearly at my favorite pull-up bar by the iron pile where I like to hang out when two guys split off from the larger group by the fence and head my way. Late twenties. Heavily muscled. I’ve seen them in the chow hall, but we’ve never interacted. Before now, they kept to themselves and out of my way. If memory serves, both are lifers.

They approach with caution, hands held behind their backs. I move so I’m directly under the pull-up bar and wait. The men exchange a quick look. And then, they charge me. Each wielding a knife.

I jump, grab ahold of the bar, and kick the nearest asshole’s chest with both of my feet, sending him flying backward. Leaping down, I land right next to the other attacker, just as he swipes his weapon at me. Not a tiny, easily concealed switchblade, but a big-ass thirteen-inch retractable stiletto. I punch him in the face while he plunges his knife into my left shoulder. The fucker stumbles back, spraying the packed dirt with blood as he shakes his head.

My shoulder feels like it’s on fire when I wrench the blade from my flesh. Gripping the hilt, I bury the steel in the shithead’s belly, aiming for his liver. He screams and backs up, pressing his hands to the gushing wound with the protruding dagger.

“Spada! Watch out!” someone yells.

I spin around just in time to avoid getting stabbed in the back and grab the other dickwad’s wrist. Squeezing, I enjoy the melody of grinding bones. With my other hand, I grip the front of the guy’s shirt and, mentally blocking another jolt of pain in my shoulder, slam my forehead into his ugly mug. Not giving him time to recover, I drive my knee into his midsection and send him toppling to the ground. A cloud of dust rises around us as I drop onto his chest and wrap my hands around his throat.

“Who sent you?” I snarl.

“I don’t… know.”

I squeeze his neck harder. “I’m going to kill you, and then I’ll go after your family! Who was it?”

“I… I swear,” he wheezes. “I don’t know. The new guard, on the morning shift… paid us off.”

“Name?!” I roar into his rapidly purpling face.

Hands grab me from behind, pulling me off the asshole. I try to fight them off, but three COs wrestle me away and start dragging me out of the yard. I keep raging, digging my feet into the ground and throwing punches indiscriminately when I feel a pinch on the side of my neck. My muscles immediately go slack as if they’ve turned to jelly, and a few breaths later, everything fades to black.

***

The stench of mold invades my nostrils. I don’t even need to open my eyes to know where I am. Solitary confinement. My frequent stopover; a home away from home every couple of months. What does it say when I can pinpoint the hole by its smell?

The screech of metal behind me signals the cell door opening. With a groan, I roll over on the putrid mattress and eye my visitor. My buddy Sam’s face floats in front of me, my vision still blurred from the tranquilizer I got spiked with.

“I need you to find a way for me to speak with those two motherfuckers,” I croak.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Spada.” He sets a tray of food on the rusty desk next to the bunk. “They offed each other shortly after they were brought to the infirmary.”

“How convenient. Who was on guard at the ward while they managed to get that done?”

“Some new guy. He was transferred here two days ago, but I haven’t caught his name, yet.”

“Is there a way I can have a chat with him?”

Sam straightens and takes a quick look over his shoulder before replying. “Seems he was in a traffic accident on his way home. He didn’t make it.”

I shake my head, but not because the fucking thing is still ringing. Though it is.

Alright, someone wants me dead. And when their plan to take me out failed, they quickly covered their tracks.

The fact that they tried isn’t what’s bothering me. It’s the timing.

This scheme was put into place right after Nuncio was assassinated. A coincidence or something more?

You don’t believe in coincidences.

No, I don’t.

Nuncio’s death and the attack on me must be connected. But how? What am I not seeing? And who the fuck would benefit from having my stepfather dead?

There’s no trouble brewing between our Family and other organizations, I made sure of that. And business has been booming, so it can’t be for money. Power, that’s the only logical motive. And if I’m right, it leaves Leone as the suspect. He’s the only one who stands to gain substantially with Nuncio out of the picture. Did he somehow get a whiff of who’s really been running things in Boston and decided to take me out, too?

Jesus fuck! What if he found out that Zahara had been feeding me inside info?

I leap off the bunk and grab the front of Sam’s uniform. “Did anyone read my mail?”

“What?” he chokes out. “No! Of course not!”

“If you’re lying to me, I’ll fucking end you!”

“I swear, Mr. Spada. Me and Jonas are the only ones who ever touch it before it’s sent out to be delivered. The post guy who comes to get it is solid, too. I’ve known him a long time and I’d vouch for him, honest.”

The vise squeezing my chest eases off. She’s safe. Everyone else can drop dead right in this instant, as far as I’m concerned.

We’ll need to stop all communication. Just in case. It will mean no more letters. No more soothing peace for my soul. It doesn’t matter. Her safety is the only thing that does. And to make sure Zahara stays unharmed, I’ll have Peppe stick to her like a fucking magnet. Protecting her has just become his top priority, with a “fire at will” command to shoot anyone who looks or even breathes at her the wrong way.

I let go of Sam’s shirt and gesture toward the door. The sound of his retreating steps resonates off the solid walls, followed by the loud thud of the cell door shutting behind him. I look up at the cracked ceiling, but it’s not the crumbling drywall that I see. It’s a pair of honey-brown eyes, watching me. Recognizing me. Seeing me.