Sweet Prison: Chapter 6

One year later

(Zahara, age 17)

The door to my father’s office opens without a sound. Nevertheless, I throw another look down the hall to make sure no maids are around, then step inside.

“Zara? Do you need something?”

I startle, gaping at my father sitting behind his massive maple desk. He closes the folder in his hands, the expression on his face is of clear surprise—I barged into his space without an invitation. Well, I wasn’t expecting him to be here. I’ve gotten used to sneaking into Dad’s office on the regular to search for whatever Massimo needs. Whenever Dad isn’t home, obviously. And today is Thursday. He shouldn’t be here!

Every Thursday morning, my father leaves early to visit Massimo in prison. He spends hours at the correctional facility and doesn’t return home until late in the afternoon. The routine is like clockwork, and it didn’t even cross my mind to check that today was the same before I came down here.

“Um…” I throw a quick glance at the imposing grandfather clock in the corner. Just after one. Dad never returns before three. “I’m out of paper for my sketches, so I thought I could borrow some from your printer.”

“Sure.” He grabs a few sheets out of the tray and offers them to me. “Are you wearing makeup, sweetheart?”

My hand flies up to my face. Over the past several weeks, I’ve been trying different brands of foundation, fruitlessly searching for one that doesn’t irritate my skin. This latest is labeled hypoallergenic and for sensitive skin, and so far, it’s a bit better than the others. There’s no rash, but my skin still itches.

“Yes.” I accept the paper from him. Going for casual, I comment, “You’re back early today.”

“Yeah. Massimo is still in the hospital ward and can’t have any visitors.”

The blank sheets slip from my fingers, falling to the floor. Hospital ward? My pulse skyrockets. I try to draw a calming breath, but it feels as if someone has wrapped their hands around my neck, squeezing tightly.

“Is… is he okay?” Somehow, I manage to form the words.

“Oh sure.” Dad shrugs and looks down at the printout he’s pulled out. “Just a stab wound to his side. It happens.”

It happens? His nonchalant tone communicates loudly that this is a more or less regular occurrence. Dad doesn’t sound worried at all. I crouch to pick up the fallen sheets, noticing that my hands shake as I lift the paper. “So… this isn’t the first time?” I ask, trying to keep my composure.

“It’s a state prison, Zara. There are always skirmishes among incarcerated men, and Massimo is a high-profile individual.” Dad motions dismissively, as if he’s discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. “He’ll be fine.”

Anger roils in my stomach as I stare at my father. How can he be so unperturbed? Massimo might not be his flesh and blood, but he’s a living, breathing human being. Not to mention, the sole reason for every success my father has experienced and continues to enjoy. Like the countless business connections. The money. The unquestioning loyalty of the Cosa Nostra capos and soldiers. And the respect and adoration of the rest of the Family. Each time one of them bowed and kissed Dad’s hand to acknowledge the security and prosperity he brought them, they should actually have been thanking and praising Massimo instead. Without Massimo, my father would not have lasted a year as the don. He would have been relieved of his duties, removed, or maybe even “retired.” Nuncio Veronese is nothing without my stepbrother. And he knows it.

Maybe that’s the reason Dad hates Massimo so much.

“Thank you for the paper,” I say with a strained smile and leave my father’s office without looking at him.

Back in my room, I head straight for my backpack and pull out my phone. I’ve never called the prison before, so it takes me a few minutes of googling to find the right number. My fingers tremble as I press the call button and then listen to the ringing on the line for nearly a minute before it disconnects.

Shit. Breath leaves my lungs in short bursts as I hit redial. With every grating buzz in my ear, it’s becoming harder to draw in enough oxygen. Finally, after the sixth ring, a rather bored-sounding male voice answers.

“I’d like some information on one of your inmates,” I choke out. “Massimo Spada. He’s been taken to the hosp—”

“Name?” he drawls.

“Um… Zahara Veronese. I’m his stepsister.”

The sound of what I’m certain are two pointer fingers hitting the keyboard drags on for an eternity.

“He’s alive.”

Dead air replaces the gruff voice on the line.

I stare at my phone. He’s alive. That’s all I get? I wasn’t expecting the prison admin to be super forthcoming, but I hoped he’d give me more than a two-word reply, damn it.

Reaching into the nightstand drawer, I grab the notebook I use to write letters to Massimo and tear out a sheet from the middle. I should probably let him know that Batista Leone has visited Dad an absurd number of times in the last few weeks, but my stupid “report” is the last thing on my mind right now.

With my letter written and in hand, I grab the nearest stack of sketches for my new designs and basically fly down the stairs to look for Peppe.

I can’t wait for Massimo’s usual response. It could take days. I need to know what’s happening. This minute! Speaking with Salvo is my only option; maybe he knows something. But I don’t have his number, and there is no way I could ask Dad for it that wouldn’t raise suspicion. I also can’t just show up at Salvo’s home to simply have a chat.

Luckily, I’ve got an idea.

Salvo’s mother complimented my dress at one of the dinners I attended with Dad. The next day, she called, asking if I’d consider making a custom-designed gown for her. I declined. But it appears, I’ve changed my mind. Why else would I be heading to her house now?

And maybe, just maybe, Salvo will be home.

I find Peppe in the kitchen, munching on snacks.

“I need you to drive me over to Canali’s,” I choke out.

***

“Yes, this one would be perfect,” Rosetta Canali says while admiring a sketch of a sleeveless gown with a built-in corset and a big bow at the back. “Could you make it in royal blue satin?”

“Blue satin would be great.” I nod and leap off the chaise lounge, practically snatching the paper out of her hand. “Okay. I have your measurements, so I’ll get started on this over the weekend.”

“Wonderful. I’m so excited, dear. You should seriously consider getting into the fashion industry.”

Yeah, sure. My dad would be thrilled to have his daughter work as a seamstress for women below her social standing. “I will. Um… Is Salvo here? I’d like to say hi.”

“Of course. He’s in the study. Let’s go and— Oh, there he is.” She waves toward the double doors that connect the salon with the library. “Salvo, darling, Zara has changed her mind and agreed to design a dress for me. She even came all the way here so I could look at her sketches.”

“Did she now?” Salvo says from the doorway. His face is set in hard, reproachful lines. I don’t think he’s buying my “I’m just here to make a dress” cover story. He leans on the jamb, partially blocking the exit. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” I say, then mouth, We need to talk.

If it’s possible, the expression on his face seems to darken even further. Over the past months, we’ve been running into each other at various events. Despite my best efforts to avoid him, each time he’s found a way to discreetly approach me and lecture me on how foolish I am to involve myself in such a dangerous game. It’s annoying as hell. I liked Salvo much better before he found out what I was doing for Massimo—when he was absolutely ignorant of my existence.

“Okay.” Salvo nods. “I’ll walk you out to the car.”

I mumble a quick goodbye to Mrs. Canali and follow Salvo to the foyer.

“Have you heard from Massimo?” I ask as soon as we’re out of earshot.

“Not in the last couple of months. Why?”

“Because he’s in the hospital ward!” I whisper. “I found out this morning when I snuck into my dad’s office to look for something. Only I didn’t get the chance because Dad was there. Apparently, Massimo can’t have any visitors right now, so my father didn’t even go to see him today.”

Salvo stops near the front door and grabs my upper arm.

“Are you insane?” he whispers back. “Nuncio might be your father, but he’s also the don. What if someone catches you going through his files and passes that information to the rest of the fucking Family?”

“No one will catch me.”

“You don’t know that.” He cocks his head to the side, studying my face. “You look different.”

I furrow my brows, confused by the sudden change of subject. “I’m wearing some foundation.”

“Mm-hmm…” He reaches out and sweeps a stray strand of hair off my face. “You look very pretty.”

For just an instant, I’m too stunned to respond. Men never give me compliments. What’s his deal? Is this a ploy of some kind? Whatever. I have zero mental capacity to analyze Salvo’s behavior at the moment.

“If you hear anything, please let me know. Your mother has my number.” I step around him and head to the car.

“What did he promise you?” Salvo calls after me. “In exchange for your… help? Money? A favorable match for your marriage?”

I don’t even bother gracing him with an answer. Men. They all think the world revolves around dicks. God forbid a woman does something because it makes her feel good. Recognized. Worthy. None of the men in my sphere make me feel that way.

Except one.

And right now, I don’t even know if he’s okay!

“Glad to see you up and about, Spada. A few days under the fluorescent lights of the hospital ward has really perked up your complexion.”

“Fuck off, Kiril.” I nod at the Bulgarian. Pain screams in my hip, the stitches pulling on my flesh as I lower myself to take a seat beside him in the rec yard.

“Owen got you good, I see.” He laughs, flashing a gold upper bicuspid. “Is he still in the infirmary?”

“Yup. Severe concussion. He’ll live.”

“Why the fuck did you get into a fight with that nutcase?”

“He wanted to sit next to me in the chow hall. But the asshole knows I like to eat alone.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose. My eyes still sting from the damn pepper spray the COs doused us with. “So, you’re catching the chain tomorrow?” The lucky bastard is getting out of here.

“Yup. Four years and eight months in this cage. To be honest, I’m feeling a bit of anxiety.”

“You’ll get over it. Just make sure you don’t suddenly develop amnesia once you’re out and forget the terms we agreed on.” I pin him with my gaze.

Kiril’s crew owns a car wash business with several locations around the state, and they use these to launder money for Camorra. My own laundering channels have been stretched too thin in the past year, so I negotiated an in with the Bulgarians, giving them a cut of fifteen percent.

“I’m a man of my word, Spada.” He stands up and offers me his hand. “Looking forward to working with Cosa Nostra.”

While we shake hands, Kiril leans toward me. “A new inmate will be arriving next week, and a little birdie told me that the Triad is a bit worried about the reception he’ll get,” he says in a lowered voice. “Mr. Wang would be extremely grateful if someone could take the boy under his wing.”

I raise an eyebrow. “His son?”

“Grandson. The kid got busted for offing a guy who owed them money.”

“Tell Mr. Wang that he needn’t be concerned for his boy’s well-being. And we’ll settle the debt at a later date.”

I watch Kiril leave, then reach into my pocket and take out the envelope that arrived this morning. My stepsister’s letters are usually several pages long. This one, however, is only a single sheet, with barely a few lines of text.

Are you okay? Dad told me you were injured and in the hospital ward. What happened? I called the prison to see how you’re doing, but they just told me you’re alive and hung up on me.

Zahara

Rage explodes inside me as I read the last sentence. I can’t have anyone in Cosa Nostra suspecting that I’m in any way involved with the Family. Nuncio and my lawyer are the only two approved people on my visitation list for that sole reason. And even though I pay a shit ton of money to make sure my mail remains undisturbed and I can have conversations with Nuncio without being recorded, I don’t have anyone in my pocket in the front office. So, my stepsister—with whom I’ve presumably had no contact for over a decade—calling the prison out of the blue, could raise a serious fucking red flag.

Whoever has been working behind my back, pulling the strings to keep me in here, is high in the Cosa Nostra hierarchy. It’s more than likely they have a source inside the prison keeping tabs on me. If anyone even suspects that Nuncio is my puppet, that he isn’t actually capable of doing his job, he’d lose the respect and loyalty of the Family and would be immediately removed. My schemes for a bloodless takeover would go to hell in a handbasket.

Another jolt of pain shoots through my side as I rise off the bench and head across the yard. In the corner, scribbling madly in his notebook, is a fresh pumpkin, his head still a little swollen from the welcome beating he received upon his arrival a few days ago. Hence, the name. It’s always the same with the new guys—they either crumble into fucking mush or learn quickly how to survive in this pisshole. I think this one might make it; he looks alright, not counting the present state of his head.

I still remember my own hoe check from the welcoming committee. Those three assholes wanted to see if I’d stand up for myself or roll over and play someone’s bitch. They jumped me in the shower, two holding me while the third used a pipe on my stomach like batting practice. I was caught completely unaware, and it took two hits to the gut and a kick to the head before I came to my senses. When I managed to break free of the guys pinning me down and get ahold of the pipe, they received my answer loud and clear. My nose never did heal properly from that run-in, and the part of my jaw the doctors had to patch up still stings occasionally. But none of my attackers were left smiling, either. And they haven’t since.

My stroll down memory lane ends just as I reach my target. Without a word, I grab the pen from the guy’s hand, then brace my stepsister’s letter on the wall and jot down a single line of text, right under hers.

Don’t you fucking dare call the prison ever again.

I’m halfway across the yard, heading toward one of the guards who “works” for me so I can get him to mail the note back to Zahara, when an unexpected pang of guilt hits me. Stopping in my tracks, I lift the letter and look over my message.

What? The asshole inside my head chimes in. The meaning can’t be more clear. The kid fucked up! She needs to know just how seriously she screwed the pooch so she doesn’t do it again. Or—don’t tell me—are you going soft?

Fuck you! I snap back at my ever-present peanut gallery.

You don’t have the luxury to second-guess shit.

I know that. So why the hell are these less than a dozen words I wrote bugging me?

With the sentencing appeal denied, the then twentysomething-year-old me accepted that I’d be locked up in this cage for the long haul. For a man in his prime, that pretty much equals death. Over the years I’ve been rotting away, that reality smacked me in the face again and again, every time my parole application was turned down. Men in these situations have different ways of coping. Some just take it day by day, existing rather than living, pining for the time they’ll get their freedom back. While others simply check out, like my first bunkie who was serving thirty years for a double homicide. He hanged himself with a bedsheet barely six months in.

My focus on maintaining control of the businesses and growing the Family’s wealth and influence have kept me sane. Everything I’ve done in the past decade and a half has been accomplished with that sole purpose in mind. I threatened. Maimed. Killed—with my own hands or by my orders—at least a dozen people. Some of those stood in the way of my ultimate goal and needed to be erased from the picture. Others were simply collateral to gain favors and garner IOUs from other influential players, ensuring I’ll have the resources and support I’ll need when I eventually get released and take back what is mine. I’ve survived by not giving a crap about people or their feelings. Everyone is either an obstacle that must be overcome or an asset that can be exploited.

Zahara has ended up being a very valuable asset that I am far from done making use of. She’s nothing more than that. Once I’m finally free, I’ll marry her off to someone who’ll offer a business advantage or cement a strategic alliance. I’ll do the same with her sister. Both of them are just pawns.

But as I look at my rapidly scrawled response to her letter, that guilt punches me in the chest all over again. She’s still just a kid who didn’t know any better.

I crumple the sheet of paper and stick it into the back pocket of my pants. Glancing to the left, I spot the pumpkin, still scribbling on his notepad in the corner of the yard. My long steps eat up the distance between us, and then I’m snatching the notebook and the pen from his hands again to write a new reply.

Zahara,

Please don’t call the prison again.

M.