Sweet Prison: Chapter 21

“Miss Veronese,” Iris calls from the library threshold. “Mr. Canali is here.”

I pause sewing rhinestones on the hem of the dress and inwardly groan. He just had to drop by while Massimo was away handling the “Camorra issue.”

“Don Spada won’t be back until six. Tell him to stop by then.”

“Actually, I came to see you.” Salvo steps around Iris, coming into the room.

Marvelous.

“Thank you, Iris.” I pick up another rhinestone and focus back on my work. “What can I do for you, Salvo?”

He approaches the old oak desk where I’m working with long, slow steps and leans his shoulder on the bookshelf. Over the years, while my sister was leading Cosa Nostra, Salvo was an incredible help. Any time there was a problem, he ran interference between Nera and the capos, calming the situation and buying Nera time when necessary. He also took it upon himself to do most of the dirty work, saving Nera from having to deal with nasty things as much as possible. I’m not sure she would have been as successful if Salvo hadn’t been there to support her.

Yet, after all that he’s done, I’ve never quite come to like him. Despite his constant, insistent attempts to take me out to dinner, as well as a never-missed opportunity to chide me for putting myself in danger for Massimo’s sake, he’s remained a perfect gentleman. Even as I consistently rejected his advances. But still… I can’t shake the slight unease that washes over me when I’m alone in a room with him.

“For your sister?” he asks, nodding at the bundle of red silk in front of me.

Understandable he’d assume that. Red is Nera’s favorite color. But as it happens, it’s mine too. I just never wear it. “I don’t think you’ve dropped by to discuss my latest sewing project.”

“Why not? I like talking with you. And I’d like to spend more time in your company, if you’d let me.”

God, he just won’t quit. If I could tell Salvo right now that I’m with Massimo, it would once and for all put a stop to this nonsense. Except, I did promise Massimo we’d keep our relationship quiet. For now.

“We’ve had this discussion several times. You’re a nice guy, Salvo, but I’m not interested in going out with you.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that.” He leans away from the bookshelf.

With his hands clasped behind his back, Salvo strides around the library, looking over the book-laden shelves and the oil paintings hanging on the walls. When he reaches the fireplace, he halts and cocks his head, observing the winter landscape in an ornate golden frame hanging above the mantel.

“This belonged to my father, you know,” he says. “It was in my family for generations, until Dad had to sell it, along with many other art pieces, to cover his gambling debts. Massimo’s father bought them all at triple their value. He made a point to mention it whenever his friends came by.”

“He wanted to rub your father’s nose in it?”

“Of course not.” Salvo turns toward me, his eyes flitting around the room. “The Old Spada always insisted that Family should be there for each other. Especially in times of need. A very noble stance for someone who was basically an outsider before he joined said Family, don’t you agree?”

“I think, it was honorable of him to help a friend out, having the means to do so,” I say. Massimo’s father died when I was just a baby, but even to this day, his name still comes up in conversation among certain Family members. Unlike Salvo’s father, who is never talked about. Most Italians are very religious, and Mr. Canali killed himself. They see that as a mortal sin.

“It was,” Salvo continues. “The Family was smitten with Old Spada and his… unconventional ways. Helping his peers when he could have easily used their misfortune to keep them beholden to him. Granting various members prominent positions within the hierarchy, regardless of their pedigree. As long as he worked hard, any low-born man could earn his spot in the top echelon of our society during Old Spada’s reign. He even sent his only son to run around with the foot soldiers, allowing him to break arms and legs as if he was no better than hired muscle.”

I narrow my eyes at him. His words seem to be infused with respect and wonder, yet there’s a subtle hint of something else in his tone. It sounds almost like… envy.

“Hmm, I think that approach worked out rather well for Massimo,” I say. “I’ve never seen men remain this loyal to their leader, even after he was absent for nearly twenty years.”

Something flares in Salvo’s eyes, an emotion I can’t immediately identify, especially since he looks away at that moment. “Indeed.”

“So? Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”

“I wanted to ask if you’d marry me.”

I nearly choke. Holy shit! Massimo didn’t make up that tidbit about Salvo asking for my hand in marriage when he was trying to push me away from him.

“I can understand your decision to stay with your stepbrother.” Salvo crosses the room, coming closer. “After all, he has manipulated you for years, ever since you were barely a teenager. He has groomed a nice, timid girl to become his little marionette. One who’s more than willing to dance to his tune. And since your sister has a family of her own now, I can see how you would have been left with this conclusion—that you should rely on Massimo as your only remaining so-called family member. He probably even used your naivety to steer you into believing that.”

I seem to have lost the ability to speak, too shocked and disgusted by what he’s saying.

“Don’t let yourself be fooled by his words, Zara. Massimo doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about anything other than his own devious games and the thrill they bring him. It’s not his fault. He’s just not capable of feeling affection for anyone but himself.”

“And you are?” I choke out, revolted. “Will you be my knight in shining armor saving me from the clutches of the big bad wolf?”

“I will.” He stops on the other side of the desk and reaches out to stroke my face. “If you’ll let me.”

I rear back, away from his touch. “Thank you for your gallant offer, however, I have to respectfully decline.”

Salvo’s expression changes faster than I’ve ever witnessed anyone’s before. One moment, he appears to be a compassionate and understanding man, and the next, his face transforms into a mask of pure rage. His hand, halfway on its journey to my face, quickly redirects. He grabs my wrist with a punishing grip and pulls me toward him.

“Why?” he snarls through his teeth. “I can give you everything! Respect. Security.”

“Salvo!” I cry out, trying to yank my hand away. “Let me go.”

“I’ve admired you for years, Zara. You’d be a perfect wife for me.”

“You’re hurting me, Salvo.”

“What did he do to inspire such loyalty, huh? Why won’t you let go of that man? He’s nothing to you!”

“Because I love him!” I yell.

Salvo’s face blanches. He abruptly releases me and takes a step back, dismay and incredulity contorting his features. It lasts only a second, because, as quickly as before, his demeanor shifts. Remorse and what I can only imagine is shame, overtake his face while he runs his hands through his hair.

“I… I’m so sorry, Zara. I had no idea, and I let my emotions get the better of me. Have… have I hurt you?”

“A little,” I mumble, rubbing the tender flesh of my wrist.

“Please, forgive me. What I did… and what I said is inexcusable. You know me. I’m not usually like that. It’s just… I’ve loved you from afar for so long, that I simply lost my mind for a moment. Could we please pretend this never happened?”

My eyebrow rises, but I remain silent.

“I swear, I won’t ever voice my feelings for you again. Can we just keep all of this—my admission included—between ourselves? Right now, it’s a very delicate time for the Family, and Massimo is, of course, my friend. I want to continue helping him achieve all his goals, but if he hears about this, he won’t let me.”

He sounds sincere. And looks truly apologetic. However, a speck of doubt inside me warns that his outward penitence hides some opaque, deep-seated feelings.

“Fine.” The only reason I’m agreeing to Salvo’s request is because I’m certain Massimo isn’t gonna take this well if he hears about it. And he needs all the support he can get. Including Salvo’s. “But touch me again, and I’ll introduce you to my favorite pair of scissors. You get what I’m saying?”

To make sure he understands my meaning, I grab the scissors off the table and point the tip at him like a dagger.

Salvo blinks, surprise flashing in his eyes. He cocks his head and looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the very first time. “There’s more to you than you’ve ever let on, Zara Veronese.”

His tone is strange—a mix of admiration and displeasure tinting his words.

“That applies to most people, Salvo.”

“I guess it does.” He gives me a respectful nod and exits the library, leaving me with a subtle sense of foreboding that sets all the fine hairs on my neck on end.

The smell of rust invades my nostrils as I trudge between rows of old busted cars, flooding my mouth with fucking acid. It’s a stench I became accustomed to in prison. If I had a choice, I’d never go anywhere near another piece of rusty shit. Just my luck that Camorra prefers to hold meetings at their junkyard. The location is remote, and the fact that nothing else is around for miles, makes this an ideal spot in case a meeting happens to go sideways. And with Camorra, that happens quite a lot.

A bunch of barbaric scavengers, all of them.

An animal analogy is actually quite appropriate. Not only for Camorra but for the rest of the underground syndicates, too.

The Cosa Nostra Families are like wolf packs. Well organized and faithful followers of a strict and defined hierarchy. Focused. Territorial. Wary of other packs unless there’s an opportunity to claim a limited resource. Where business is concerned, we operate with predetermined and trusted plans, often without deviation, while we chase whatever prey we’ve set our sights on. And once we’ve got its scent, we don’t let go.

In terms of structure, Bratva is very similar to us. But when it comes to business dealings, you never know what the fuck those crazy Russians are going to do. One day, they could be sitting down with you—drinking and laughing their asses off—and the next morning, they’d be pressing their gun to the back of your head. Very much like bears, whose moods and actions are often defined by how well they slept the previous night. Predicting the outcome of any given venture involving Bratva is nearly impossible. It could be a giant fucking party or an absolute bloodbath.

And then, there’s Camorra. An aptly named “clan” of hyenas. They might look like wild dogs, but they aren’t even the same species. While Cosa Nostra and Camorra share the same roots—both originated in Italy—the organizations are very different. Camorra is made up of a bunch of distinct gangs that joined to gain whatever advantage they can. As often as they merge, they split to pursue their own interests, and then join again. There are no rules, and certainly no discipline among their ranks. They make alliances based on whatever drives them at that moment. They take haphazard chances and rarely plan in advance. While with Russians, you might have at least a basic idea of where you stand, with Camorra, you don’t have the slightest clue.

Either way, you don’t turn your fucking back on any of them.

I walk around the corner, passing the wreck of a bus, and head toward the modular trailer that acts as an on-site office building. It’s been set up in a small clearing at the center of the junkyard lot, surrounded by heaps of crushed and decrepit metal.

Just steps from the entrance to the structure and nestled in its shade, two men parked on plastic folding chairs at an aluminum table covered with various dishes of food are stuffing their pieholes. Efisio, the current leader of the Camorra Clan, and his second-in-command, or so I assume. Nearby, eight armed men—each carrying a semiautomatic—are lurking in the harsh rays of the midafternoon sun.

I only brought along Peppe and three additional men, which puts us at two-to-one odds. Not bad.

“You briefed everyone on what to expect?” I ask in a low voice.

“Yes.” Peppe nods next to me. “And I have backup at the entrance to this joint.”

“I don’t think they’ll be necessary.” I slip my hands into my pants pockets and continue my casual stride.

“Can’t believe that’s really you, Spada,” Efisio exclaims around a forkful of pasta. “I remember when you were just a boy, and your father’s soldiers dragged your skinny ass along with them. You’ve changed, kid.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Pulling out one of the unoccupied chairs, I take a seat across from Efisio, making sure I have a direct line of fire at both him and his second.

“It’s unfortunate our collab in your casinos was cut short.” He reaches for a bottle of fifteen-year-old Sauvignon Blanc, which seems totally out of place here, and fills his glass. “I was looking forward to sharing the profits.”

“We’ve paid out close to double Camorra’s original investment. I’d say you walked away with quite a substantial profit from that endeavor, especially considering the length of the term.”

“I guess we did. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Spada? Do you need another influx of cash? We’d be happy to… lend a helping hand at… your strip clubs.”

I quickly glance at Efisio’s men, some of whom are leaning on the remnants of an old Cadillac right next to the office building. They seem relaxed, but there’s no missing the fact that they are still clutching their rifles in front of them. To make sure I have unimpeded access to my gun tucked into my waistband, I unbutton my jacket and lean back in my chair.

“You have one week to wrap up your business in Boston and get out of town, Efisio.”

The older man raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Get a load of this fuckin’ guy. You must have had your head scrambled worse than I thought in lockup.”

I grit my teeth to stop myself from sending a bullet right into his ugly mug.

“You’ll also cease all your dealings with the Bulgarians,” I continue. “Kiril and I have already had a chat about that.”

“Yah no, you filthy bastard!” Efisio snarls, leaning over the table.

The sound of guns and rifles being cocked ricochets all around us and in the next moment, nearly a dozen barrels are pointed in our direction. One of Efisio’s guys is aiming at me, but the rest have leveled their sights on my men. My soldiers, including Peppe, however, are all targeting Efisio. Just as they were instructed to do.

The shrill sound of a ringing phone breaks the precarious silence, interrupting the grunts and heavy breathing that have been the only sounds up to this point.

“I advise you to answer that call,” I say.

Efisio snorts, then reaches inside his jacket, never once moving his gun off me. When he takes a look at the screen, his face immediately drains of color. His eyes snap to mine.

“Mirabella?” he rasps into the phone. “Are you alright?”

I don’t hear the other side of the conversation, but I see the old man’s face paling even more.

“Everything will be fine. Just do as they tell you and you’ll be okay.” He cuts the line and glares at me with a mix of rage and terror in his eyes. “You motherfucker! She’s just a child.”

“Your niece is twenty. The same age as my stepsister was when your cousin Alvino kidnapped her with the intent of forcing her to marry him. She was almost killed in the clusterfuck that ensued.”

“That was years ago! And I had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t give the slightest fuck, Efisio. Camorra dared to come at mine. I do the same, only worse. However, if you agree to leave Boston peacefully, not a hair will be harmed on the girl. You don’t, and I kill her. Capisci?”

“You wouldn’t harm an innocent girl. Alvino was a deranged asshole, but you’re not that far gone, Spada.”

I brace my elbows on the table and lean forward, getting in his face. “You sure about that?”

His wide eyes bore into mine, searching. And I let him see the truth.

“You sick fuck,” he chokes out, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw is liable to shatter.

I stand up and straighten my jacket. “I’m glad we’ve sorted this all out. I expect you and every member of your clan gone by noon, next Thursday. Do I have your word?”

“Yeah. Now call your men and tell them to let my niece go.”

I take out my phone and type a short text. A minute later, a photo arrives—an image of the girl running through a gate toward a two-story house. Lifting the phone, I turn it around to show Efisio the screen. “There. Done.”

“I hope you burn in hell, Spada.”

“Been there, done that.” I give my men a slight nod and head in the direction of the exit. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Efisio.”

A sound of pebbles and metal scraps cracking under the soles of our feet follows us as we head across the clearing. The sun is high and it shines on the debris surrounding us, making the stink even heavier. I fucking hate it.

As soon as we round the corner and enter a long alley between two rows of cars, I slip behind the nearest wreck and take out my gun. “Remember, Efisio is mine.”

“I doubt he’ll try anything,” Peppe says as he assumes a position across from me while the rest of my guys spread out nearby. “He gave his word.”

“He did. But that was before we released his niece.”

“Yes, but—” He doesn’t finish because all eight of Efisio’s men come into view, guns raised.

Gunfire explodes in the next moment.

The Camorra guys obviously didn’t expect to come up on us this quickly, so the first three drop dead even before they get the chance to aim their rifles. The rest scatter, taking cover among the rusted-out vehicles. I manage to hit one in the back before he dives behind a junker of a truck from the last century, but then have to dodge when bullets rain down on me. A piece of shrapnel gets blown off the fender of the car I’m using for cover and flies at my face, nicking my cheek.

My phone starts ringing inside my pocket. If it wasn’t for the notes of a classic melody I set as Zahara’s custom tone, I might not have been able to pick out the shrill among the gunfire. Typically, my phone is always on vibrate only—at least, ever since Nera’s eloquent “goodbye” nearly blew it up. The regular ringing was too reminiscent of the alert sound that bounced off the walls just before the cell doors were unlocked each morning, and I couldn’t stand hearing that goddamned screech. But for Zahara, I installed a special ringtone and activated the feature that allows her calls to always ring through, regardless of “silent” or “do not disturb” modes. I never want to miss her calls.

“Zahara.” Another bullet whizzes above me. I move to the other end of the car and glance over the hood. “All good there?”

“The designer just called. Apparently, stock is low for the tile I picked out last week, and it’ll be a while before they can get more in. So, he wants to know if you’d prefer the same ones in all bathrooms or if— Where are you?”

“Just wrapping up the meeting with Efisio.” Aiming at the Camorra goon crouched by an overturned pickup truck, I pull the trigger. “Actually, I was thinking white for the master en suite and, maybe, for the rest of the third floor.”

“Massimo? Is that… gunfire?”

“Of course not. Could you ask him to bring us a few new options to look at?”

A round of rapid shots erupts, and the side window to my left explodes, sending shards of glass every which way.

“You lunatic!” Zahara yells into the phone. “Don’t have a freaking chitchat on the phone while you’re being shot at!”

“Doubting my ability to multitask? You wound me, angel.”

“Jesus! Call me when you’re done!”

The line goes dead. I look at Peppe, who’s crouched less than four feet away, changing the magazine on his gun. He’s shaking his head.

“You think she’s pissed at me?”

“Yup.” He nods. “Y’know, I’ve never heard Miss Veronese yell before. With all the shit you’ve been through, she’s gotta figure you’re not that easy to kill. But still, she must be truly scared for your life right now. You gonna marry her?”

My head snaps toward him. “That’s not your fucking concern.”

“That means yes. I’m glad. You two are good together. Like opposing forces finally combining into one, and their polarities fusing in harmony. Just like vinegar and oil in mayonnaise.”

“You did not just compare my future marriage to goddamned mayo!”

“Don’t wait too long to propose, though. Or someone else may snatch her up.”

A series of shots spray the side of the vehicle I’m using as cover. I send a few answering bullets in the direction of potential shooters, then duck back down to change the magazine.

“I’m… worried, Peppe. Terrified, actually. She’s so delicate. I’m not sure how she’ll handle the blowback from the Family. I swear, if anyone even looks at her sideways, never mind says something, I’ll obliterate the fucker. Even if it means I’ll end up massacring the entirety of Cosa Nostra. I just don’t want her hurt, you know?”

“Hurt is what makes us strong, Massimo, and she has already been through quite a bit of it. Give her a chance, and I’m certain she’ll surprise you.”

He cocks his gun and moves along the line of busted cars, sneaking up on the last of Efisio’s men still standing. The rest are scattered among the junk, either dead or on the fast track to meet their maker. However, there’s no trace of Efisio anywhere.

Holding my gun at the ready, I step out from the cover the wreck provided me and meander past the fallen Camorra soldiers. Halfway to the office trailer, I spot Efisio. He’s slumped on the ground, head bent forward, hand trying to stanch the blood flow from a gaping wound in his chest.

I approach and crouch in front of him. “That was stupid.”

The old man laughs, spraying blood from his mouth. “Damn shame I won’t be around to witness the finale.”

“What the fuck are you yammering about?”

Efisio laughs again, but this time breaks into a coughing fit, spitting out more blood. The stream of it flows down his chin. “So friggin’ long in the making. Almost twenty years. I think he’s gonna make you beg. On your knees. And I’ll miss it. Pissah, ain’t it?”

The fuck?!

I grab his blood-soaked shirtfront and snarl into his face. “Who? Give me his name!”

A choking sound leaves Efisio’s lips. I lean forward, trying to catch the words.

“I wonder”—he pants, his voice barely audible—“what will feel worse: the bullet he’ll put in your head or… his betrayal?”

“Name!” I roar, shaking the son of a bitch.

A small smile forms on Efisio’s lips, and then his eyes roll back. Cursing, I straighten and point my gun between his vacant eyes.

“A man who can make me kneel before him hasn’t yet been born, Efisio,” I bark and pull the trigger.

***

“Peppe, I have to make a detour,” I say into the phone while turning toward the hustle and bustle of Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood. “Make sure the remnants of Efisio’s clan know that their situation has changed and that I expect them to be gone within the week.”

Cutting the call, I slow the hell down and cruise along the swanky street lined on both sides with stores, hotels, restaurants, and every other imaginable establishment steeped in an abundance of elegance and charm. The bulk of the architecture consists of old Victorian mansions, but several modern buildings are tucked in amid the lot. Numerous big names grace the storefronts, their window displays beckon shoppers with the latest fashion trends. I dismiss those immediately as too big and imposing. I’m after something else. Something intimate, inviting, and unique.

This location is ideal, and I find exactly what I need about halfway down the stretch. An old five-story brick building with a couple of good-sized windows on the ground floor and lots of greenery around the arched entrance. It’s quaint yet tasteful. Perfect.

Lady Luck must be smiling at me because a car pulls away from the curb right out front, so I scoot my Jag into an empty parking spot and head inside the boutique occupying the lower level. Based on the sign over the door that boasts of impeccable handmade quality and trendy designer styles, the place specializes in haute couture bags and purses.

The older lady behind the counter looks up, her eyes going wide upon seeing me. Obviously, I don’t look like one of her usual customers.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

I take a look around, noticing intricately carved, tall wooden shelves. Zahara is going to love them. “I need to speak with the owner or the manager.”

“What’s this about?”

Reaching inside my jacket, I take out my checkbook and place it on the counter in front of granny. She narrows her eyes at it as if I produced crayons and a coloring book. “I need to know who owns this place because I’m buying it.”

“We do.” A man who looks to be north of eighty comes out of the back room and stands next to the woman. Her husband, I assume. “And it’s not for sale.”

I nod and grab a pen from the cup next to the ancient-looking cash register. “Tell you what… This is how it’s going to go down. Based on the size of the space and the location, I’d say this place is worth around four or five mill.” I write the amount of five million on the check. “I’ll triple it,” I say while adding “one” at the start of the number, “and you make sure your stuff is out of here by the end of the day. Does that work for you?”

The elderly couple blinks in unison, then, both of them look down, staring at the check I’ve turned toward them. I wait for them to say something, but they just keep gawking at the digits. Are they counting the zeros? Seeing this sort of reaction to a personally written check is the only reason I still like using the blasted things instead of the Black Amex in my wallet.

“Hey!” I snap my fingers in front of their faces. “Time’s ticking, so you better start packing up your shit. I’ll have my lawyer drop by in an hour to arrange the paperwork.”

“Sir, I…” gramps starts to mumble. “I don’t…”

I sigh. Reaching inside my jacket again, I pull out my gun, setting it on the counter right next to the check. “Funeral? Or fifteen million?”

A small gasp leaves the woman’s lips before she slams her hands over her mouth. The man just continues to stare slack-jawed at my gun, his face slowly turning a greenish hue.

“Tough choice, I know. The check is real, if you’re wondering, and offers slightly better retirement benefits, don’t you agree?”

“Indeed,” the old guy chokes out. “It definitely does.”

“Perfect.” I tear the check out of my checkbook and reach over the counter to stuff it into the geezer’s front shirt pocket.

Small things. I feel completely at peace as I walk out of the door of this charming little shop. Even the knowledge that Efisio was somehow involved in the decades-long conspiracy against me, proving that there really is a plot orchestrated by someone close to me, doesn’t seem to faze me. I can’t believe something as small as purchasing a quaint little boutique would bring me such immense satisfaction in the grand scheme of things.

Fifteen million dollars can hardly be called “small,” my inner asshole’s voice bites back. The undisguised sarcasm dished out by my alter ego isn’t lost on me.

Want me to go back and retract the offer?

Don’t you dare!

I smile and get behind the wheel. The shrewd bastard has always been interested in power and financial gain, but it’s obvious that even the most devious part of my psyche is fully smitten with my little angel.

Zahara is going to love this place, I have no doubt. Reading all of her letters, it was clear as day that her dream has always been to create her own fashion label. She’s been obsessed with designing and sewing clothes for years, but each time I asked why she wouldn’t make a business out of it, she shut down. I blame Nuncio for constantly insinuating that this line of work is beneath her. The pompous asshat was never capable of seeing what was right in front of his nose.

I want her to be happy. I want to give her everything she deserves and more. Every single wish she has, I want to make it come true. I vowed that no one would ever again clip her wings or hurt her. Which is why I’ll do anything for her, whether she asks it of me or not. Anything, except one thing.

I will not ruin her life.

Because… What if Salvo is right?

What if her feelings for me are simply a product of my manipulations? What if in a few months, or even years, she realizes that? Just thinking of the possibility is throwing me into a full-blown panic.

For years, I exploited this amazing woman to gain a tactical advantage, never realizing what she would become to me. The love of my life. And now, knowing that she’s The One, something I felt since the instant our gazes met at her father’s funeral, I wish I had the power to erase the past. Then, I would never have used her. Then, our history would have been built on trust. Then, I wouldn’t be agonizing over whether her feelings for me could last. Be real. Without my conduct clouding her judgment. But after what I’ve done to her, how could they be?

Yet, every fiber of my being hopes that they are.

Am I just an entitled dickhead, or dare I trust Zahara knows her own heart and mind?

I want to shout it to the masses. She’s mine, motherfuckers! All mine! And she’ll forever be that, even if I have to level this all-too-often cruel world, with its bigotry and stupidity, and lay the wreckage at her feet. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her, as long as my actions won’t hurt her.

So how could I even consider leading her into the direct line of fire of every single person she’s ever known? How could I subject her to their derision and scorn?

I can handle myself. Her confidently spoken words push to the forefront of my mind.

Can she? I know my girl is strong. Her tenacity leaves me in goddamned awe, but at the same time, she’s so fragile and softhearted.

…she’ll surprise you.

Fucking Peppe. His mayo shit got me caught in wishful thinking again.

This constant tug-of-war between doing what I know is right and surrendering to what I want is driving me nuts. There’s no question about what I should do. The best thing for Zahara is for me to stay away.

But I can’t, damn it! I can’t!

Fuck! I smack the steering wheel with my palm.

Just claim her as yours in front of everyone, and whatever happens, fight it with the fires of hell. You’ve always been a selfish bastard. What’s changed?

“I did,” I mumble. “Because, for the first time in my life, I care about someone more than my own hide. And what the hell is with you? You’ve been yapping nonstop about how I’m going to ruin her life, now you’re screaming claim her.”

Not your problem.

“Don’t be a chickenshit. Say it. We both know the truth anyway.”

Fine! I’m in love with her, too. There. Happy?

Laughter rumbles inside my chest and then explodes out of me. “You’re such a piece of work, buddy.”

A startled gasp erupts from a woman passing by my Jag with her dog. She freezes in place and throws a panicked look at me through the open window.

“What?” I bark. “Never seen anyone arguing with themselves?”

Shaking her head, she slowly backs away from the edge of the sidewalk, then hurries down the block, nearly dragging her poor pooch in her wake.