Sweet Prison: An Age Gap Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 10)

Almost a year later

(Zahara, age 18; Massimo, age 35)

The dark-blue cube van backs up to the open loading bay door. Every Sunday morning, it arrives to collect bins of dirty laundry and takes everything to another nearby correctional center to be dealt with. Keeping my eyes on the vehicle through the wisps of my frosty breath, I lean my shoulder on the cold wall of the docking area and wait for the truck to come to a stop. The driver-side window slides down, and instantly, a barely audible whistle sounds from inside the cab.

I grab one of the bins overflowing with mesh bags stuffed full of filthy shit and carry it to the back of the vehicle while the stink attacks my nostrils. Stacking the bin in the cargo hold of the cube van, I throw a look at the correctional officer supervising the work. He glances at the other two inmates handling the bins, then gives me a slight chin lift.

Casually, I head around the truck and lean my shoulder on the driver’s door. “You should have been here a week ago.”

“Apologies, boss.” Peppe’s low voice drifts through the open window. “My brother’s shift got changed, so I couldn’t take his place last Sunday.”

“Make sure that doesn’t happen again,” I warn.

Peppe is first generation Cosa Nostra. His father was a laborer at one of the Family’s warehouses, working alongside my dad. Peppe, however, is more ambitious than his old man ever was. He decided to become a made man by taking the oath and turned soldier during my father’s reign. When I got shot the night of my junior prom, it was Peppe who carried my ass to safety, and he ended up being wounded himself in the process. For years, he’s been my secret contact within the foot soldiers’ ranks.

“What do you have for me?” I ask.

“A guy by the name of Wei Zhao arrived in Block C a few days ago. The Triad wanted you to know that they hold no love toward him and would be immensely grateful if he could be handled. A suicide, if that’s possible.”

“I’ll need a week or two to make arrangements. I don’t have anyone reliable in Block C, so I’ll take care of it myself. Anything else?”

“The Roxbury brats have been causing a stir, using a location on our turf to move boosted cars. But they’ve been handled.” He pauses, and I can tell that whatever he has to say next, is something that’s weighing on his mind. “Capo Armando, though, might become a problem. Since he’s been assigned to oversee foot soldiers, he hasn’t bothered to come down to speak with our men even once. He seems to be more interested in spending his father’s money at the casinos.”

I remember Armando. I remember him being a tool. He went to the same school as Salvo and me but was two years behind us. Armando is stupid as fuck, but his father is one of our largest investors. That’s why I had to agree to promote the useless son of a bitch. Nuncio informed me Armando’s father had asked for it personally. I couldn’t risk making any waves among the Cosa Nostra elite at the time, but once I’m free, I’m taking care of that idiot. “I’ll see to it that he takes his obligations more seriously from now on. At any rate, he’s occupying that position only temporarily.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Peppe’s head bobs up and down nearly imperceptibly, and then he exhales a long breath. “Motivation is important to people. As is knowing that they’re not seen as simply expendable muscle. Men need a leader who values them. They haven’t forgotten how it was… before.”

I look away, staring at the high concrete wall that surrounds the prison and the electric barbed wire coiled at the top. Everything that lies beyond has been obscured from my view for over a decade. Yes… Before… Before I landed in lockup, no local drug deal or internal skirmish happened without me being there. My presence ensured our soldiers’ safety because only an idiot would risk opening fire with a high-ranking member of Cosa Nostra in attendance. My men were important to me. Every single one. From my right-hand guy to the lowest courier in the hierarchy. But that was… before.

Now… Now I don’t give a fuck about anyone or anything beyond the successful execution of my plan. Nothing.

“The man you remember doesn’t exist anymore, Peppe. Don’t give our men false hope. I’m not the same person I once was. He’s gone.”

“Or maybe he’s simply… lost.” He steals a look in a side-view mirror. “The loading is almost complete.”

“Yup. Make sure you don’t miss your visit next month. I have an errand for Zahara, and you’ll need to accompany her.” I tap the door with my fist and turn to leave, but Peppe whispers my name and I stop.

“Why are you still using the girl? I’ll do anything to get whatever info you need, you know that.”

I turn back and pin him with my gaze. Peppe has always been observant, which is the main reason I positioned him to be one of Don Veronese’s drivers—so he could easily monitor my stepfather’s movements and overhear conversations en route. But despite his current assurance, I know he could never get me intel from inside the social functions that Nuncio loves to host and frequent. I don’t doubt Peppe’s willingness or his abilities for a minute. It’s simply not in the cards. Not for him.

“She’s too young,” he adds. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” I snap and head back inside the loading bay. I refuse to give up the ace up my sleeve.

Zahara

Two months later

“Zara!” My sister pounces to snatch the gift box she just handed me out of my grasp. “You can’t open it now! Your guests are already arriving and you should open all your presents at the same time, after the party.”

I take a step back, squeezing the box to my chest. “They are not my guests. I didn’t invite any of those people. Dad did. So, I don’t care. Your present is probably the only one I’ll like anyway.”

Nera’s smile slips, but she quickly puts on a happy face. “Fine. Let’s see if I’ve chosen well.”

Moving a vase of white roses aside, I lay the gift box on the dresser and begin tearing off the wrapping paper. Whatever it is, it’s small and rectangular. Is it a new set of sketching pencils? New sewing scissors to add to my growing collection? As soon as the box is completely unwrapped, I almost break down in tears.

“How did you…?” I stare at the limited edition, handheld, electric rotary cutter that I’ve seen in promo videos. It’s the latest and greatest tool for cutting several layers of fabric at a time. “These are only sold in Japan.”

“Dania’s cousin traveled to Tokyo for work a few weeks ago.” She smirks. “You’ve been babbling about that thing for months, so how could I not?”

“Thank you,” I choke out and kiss her cheek.

“He also brought me a fridge magnet. I have it hanging next to the one you got for me in Paris.”

I quickly look away, feeling guilty. I got that magnet from eBay. The long weekend trip to Europe with Hannah’s family never actually happened. For me, at least. It was a cover story for when I had to personally deliver a secret message to some guy on the outskirts of New York City last month. No one except Peppe, who drove me there and stuck to me like glue during the exchange, knew about it.

The whole thing was an ordeal. Nobody from the other Cosa Nostra Families is permitted into the New York territory without specific permission from their don. I’m pretty sure the guy I met was a local mafioso, though, so somehow Massimo made the arrangements for me. Don’t recall the guy’s exact name. I was a bit too nervous. Arthur? No, Arturo. And the message made absolutely no sense to me. It was just two sentences.

I have a solution for your problem in Chinatown.

I’ll reach out when I’m ready to trade.

I wonder what kind of dealings Massimo has with the notorious Don Ajello? Also, something tells me Peppe is working for Massimo, too, considering he never said a word to anyone about our excursion. He didn’t even question me when I told him where I had to go.

“Zara!” The door to my room swings open and Dad steps inside. He’s wearing a new black suit and has his hair slicked back, ready to impress whatever bigshot is coming tonight. I have absolutely no doubts about that. “The guests are arriving, and you need to greet them.”

I sigh. “I’m coming.”

“Good. Now, close your eyes.”

Raising my eyebrows, I do as he says. The unmistakable sound of footsteps in dress shoes approaches and moves behind me. Then, something drapes around my neck.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at this the other day,” he gushes next to my ear and kisses the top of my head. “Happy birthday, baby girl.”

When I open my eyes, I’m faced with Nera’s shocked expression.

“Please, hurry,” Dad says. “It would be incredibly bad manners not to greet the people who came to your birthday party.”

The door clicks shut in his wake, and I look down. An exquisite diamond and gold necklace rests over the swells of my silk-covered breasts, sparkling against the beige of my shirt. Yes, it’s the one I saw in the jewelry store at the mall when Dad and I stopped to pick up some fabric I ordered. I spent quite a while staring at the elegant piece in the window display while Dad went to use the restroom before we left to meet his associate for dinner.

“I can’t believe he did that.” Nera rushes behind me to unclasp the necklace. “I’ll make sure he returns this and gets you something else.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“Don’t bother,” I mumble.

“No, I will. And I’ll make him apologize. How could he forget you can’t wear gold?”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Taking the necklace from her, I bring it across the room to my vanity and drop it into my jewelry box. Alongside most of my father’s previous presents that I also cannot wear. “And you won’t mention it to him, either.”

“Zara.”

“I said no.” I take Nera’s hand. “Let’s see who our dad invited to my birthday party.”

***

I snatch a glass of white wine from a waiter’s tray while he’s not looking and take a huge sip. “If I have to shake another hand tonight, I’m going to kill someone.”

“I don’t know why Dad insisted on making this into such a big event when it’s not what you wanted,” Nera mumbles next to me.

“Because his own birthday isn’t for another four months, and he’s running out of occasions where a guest list of a hundred people or more would be appropriate.”

I sigh and glance at the mingling crowd. Being a winter baby means no garden birthday parties, and the great hall is so full, the attendees are nearly tripping over each other. Having so many people this close together is an absolute dream for eavesdropping. However, with Nera at my side, I haven’t had many opportunities tonight. Other than a fun snippet that Adriano’s wife had her boobs done, which everyone has definitely noticed, I haven’t heard anything useful.

On the far side of the hall, standing near the fireplace with Capos Armando and Brio, is Salvo. They appear to be deep in discussion, but every now and then, Salvo throws a look in my direction. I have no idea what his problem is. In the past weeks, I’ve run into him twice when I went over to take his mother’s measurements. Both times he tried to start a casual chat, but I managed to evade him.

“Would you be mad if I take off now?” Nera asks. “I have a paper to finish before tomorrow morning.”

“Of course not. I’ll make another round through the room and then sneak upstairs myself.”

She gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Text me when you open your presents.”

“Yup.” I kiss her in return. I can’t wait to see all the crystal vases, jewelry, and other meaningless stuff from people who don’t even know me.

Once Nera departs, I make my way among the guests, but with the crowd so tightly pressed together, no one is discussing any sensitive subjects. Spotting Salvo heading in my direction, I quickly do a one-eighty and practically run back to my room.

The maids have already brought all of my presents upstairs, piling them in a huge heap on and around the couch. I ignore the elaborately wrapped packages and head to the bathroom but stop when I notice a large unwrapped box among a stack of small gift bags. It’s a simple white cardboard box, with just an envelope attached at the top with clear packing tape.

I drift between the rest of the presents and pluck the envelope from the box. Butterflies stir in my stomach as I pull out a plain piece of notebook paper with a single sentence written across the page.

Happy Birthday, Zahara.

It’s unsigned, but I would recognize Massimo’s handwriting anywhere.

In my last letter, I rattled on for two paragraphs about how Dad has been insisting on throwing a big-ass party for my eighteenth birthday, never dreaming that Massimo would send me a present. Is it a lamp? I hate lamps, but if Massimo got me one, I’ll keep it on my nightstand. The package seems large enough for it, and it’s rather heavy. By the time I finish lifting the lid, I’m buzzing like a live wire, and my hands are shaking.

It’s not a lamp.

Inside the box is a stack of at least ten neatly folded fabrics, each a variation of some sort of brown. My trembling fingers glide over the fine textiles, while my heart doubles its beat with every passing second. Chestnut, dark beige, and russet silk. Copper-colored lace with gold embroidered accents. Super thin cotton in a delicious mocha. Soft and flowy, perfect for summer clothes. How on earth did he get his hands on these?

At the bottom of the box, there is another note. A lone sentence on another unpretentious page.

I hope these cover every shade of brown, so now you can finally stop pestering me about the differences in each letter you write.

M.

I press my hand over my mouth and giggle. I have been pestering him. A lot. Teased him, even, for not being able to differentiate the various hues. I get a kick out of his clearly exasperated tone in his replies whenever I write about different shades of brown. Once, he asked me why I always use muted, drab colors, never yellows or oranges, for example. I ignored the question. Didn’t want to admit that the bland tints make me less noticeable in the crowd. Fewer people tend to stare at me. Stare at the discoloration around my eyes, more specifically. After all this time, all our letters, not once have I mentioned my skin condition to him. I guess I’m being vain. I want him to think of me as beautiful.

Does he? Think about me? Because I think about him all the time. I imagine our first meeting, in person, after he gets out. He’ll rush to me and scoop me into his arms. Tell me he’s been dreaming about me. Maybe… maybe he’ll even kiss me.

I shouldn’t be thinking about my stepbrother like that. It’s totally taboo, and I should be ashamed for having these scandalous thoughts bouncing around my mind. While we aren’t related by blood, the two of us together would be considered a sin in a conservative Cosa Nostra world. But I like to envision it anyway. And that’s not all I envision. I just…. can’t help myself.

There’ve been times when I’ve gone out with Nera and her friends, and the girls always bragged about their boyfriends. They’d tell stories of what they do with their men. More often than not, I’d end up shocked and red-faced. One time, Dania asked me if there was a guy I liked and offered to help hook us up. I said no, of course. All the boys I come in contact with just seem like stupid kids. I can’t even imagine kissing any of them, never mind anything more than that. But I fantasize about kissing Massimo. And I daydream of doing so, so much more.

My mind wanders to the rustic wooden chest tucked beneath my bed. There are at least a hundred letters inside, carefully hidden under a bunch of silk ribbons and scraps of fabric so the maids don’t stumble upon them by accident. Every night before I go to sleep, I pull out a few of the letters and read them. Even though I can remember each word for word. The one with the explanation of linear equations is my favorite.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and hold my hand over the flowy characters on the page, imagining Massimo speaking the words. What does his voice sound like? Deep and raspy? Or soft enough to glide over me like a smooth velvet? I don’t know, since letters have been our only communication all these years. What does he look like? I wonder, probably for the millionth time. I tried picturing him as a grown-up, an older version of the scowling boy I’d seen in photos. Imagined a man with dark, unruly hair falling across his eyes, but my mind could never make the leap. To this day, I have no idea what my stepbrother might actually look like, but I feel like I know him to his core. And if he really reads all the crap I’ve been writing in my letters, then he knows me better than anyone else, too. There is only one thing I never mentioned. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about my vitiligo and then know he was just another person who pitied me.

In the beginning, Massimo’s letters were infrequent and always way too brief. Curt, vague replies to my questions and more pointed inquiries about the things that were happening at home. With time, though, they got longer, and more personal. The five sentences became ten. Then twenty. Then, a full page. Although, a large part of each of his messages was still made up of carefully crafted directions for what he needed me to do, or what topic I should be paying more attention to when eavesdropping on my father’s meetings, the way he phased everything told me more about his interests, his abilities, and how his mind works. With each letter, I’ve been amazed anew by how cunning he is. Metaphors, code words, hidden clues. If anyone stumbled upon one of his letters, I doubt they’d be able to discern his meaning. It would all seem like nothing more than random rambling or confusing facts. His words were chaos to everyone but me.

A smart, devious man. Never wavering from his ultimate goal.

The man I can’t stop thinking about.

His more extensive yet still rather cautious letters have become the warmth that sustains me. Because it is there, between the lines, where I’m learning about the real Massimo. From things he doesn’t actually say. Like his trouble sleeping because he’s always on alert, expecting someone to cut his throat when his guard is down. How much he misses nature—plants and trees—because all he gets to see are the same concrete walls every day. His affinity for a dry sense of humor. And the guilt he still feels about Elmo’s death. He blames himself, even though it was just an unfortunate turn of events, one he could not prevent. He tried, though, and now lives with the consequences of that night. A night I don’t remember at all, but I know the truth of what happened because I managed to drag the story out of Dad. I wish I could reassure Massimo. I wish I could take away his pain.

I wish… for something that is forbidden.