Page 110 of Sweet Prison

In Massimo’s eyes, I saw his intent to kill Salvo, but I have no idea how he plans to do it. Knowing Massimo, however, he’ll put the bastard through hell first. For all those years of imprisonment. For having nearly half of his life stolen from him. Betrayed by someone he believed to be his friend. What could he possibly say to the asshole who did that?

“Well?” Salvo snaps. “I’m all ears.”

“I’LL MAKE YOU PAY FOR PUTTING YOUR FILTHY HANDS ON MY FUTURE WIFE, YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!”

A gunshot exploded when Massimo started shouting. And now the thumps and thuds of a vicious battle reach my ears.

Another loud bang echoes inside, and a part of the column near the doorway splinters, small fragments raining down next to my feet. A muffled whimper leaves my lips as I squeeze the scissors to me like a lifeline. The sounds of the struggle inside amplify my distress.

Rampant grunting. Stuff breaking. Strangled noises. And something decidedly metal hitting the floor.

I have to do something.

Oh God, Imustdo something.

Taking a long deep breath, I push away from the wall and slip across the threshold of the tomb.

Dust hangs in the air, the mites dancing in the beams of scattered light. The floor is littered with bits of stone and shattered statuette pieces that not so long ago decorated the inner sanctum. The scent of gunpowder permeates the air, but there’s something else that’s smelling up the place, too. Blood.

My eyes snap to the left where the labored breaths and grunts are coming from. Two figures are tangled on the floor. Massimo—thank goodness—has his knee jammed into Salvo’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Massimo’s hand is wrapped around the traitor’s throat, and he’s throwing punch after punch at Salvo’s face. There is dust and rubble all over his clothes, and the left sleeve of his shirt is torn. I don’t see Salvo’s gun anywhere.

“Goddamned bastard!” Massimo roars, hitting Salvo’s chin. “I’ll beat your fucking head into mush!”

As he takes another swing, the underboss manages to land a punch to Massimo’s solar plexus. The two of them end up wrestling across the floor, trying to kill each other in a variety of ways. Choke holds. Headlocks. Gut punches. Elbows to the crotch. Whatever they can reach. They roll to the foot of a massive weeping angel statue, which towers above them like a silent witness to this death match.

Both men are dirty and bloody, and Massimo once more appears to have the upper hand. As he winds up for the final strike, though, Salvo somehow manages to slither out of reach and kicks the base of the sculpture.

Breath lodges inside my lungs, and I watch in horror as the winged angel wobbles, then tilts.

“Massimo!” I scream, but my warning comes too late.

The heavy statue collides with Massimo’s shoulder, shoving him backward. He falls to the floor amid a thunderous crash of broken stone. And doesn’t get up.

My legs carry me toward Massimo’s unmoving form before my brain has the chance to register what’s happening before me. Salvo, pushing to his knees, drags a huge chunk of a busted wing toward him.

“You’re done, Spada.” His deranged laugh peals off the mausoleum walls while he raises the heavy fragment above his head.

One breath.

One blink.

A skipped heartbeat.

I swallow my animalistic scream and bury my scissors in the side of his neck. Salvo cries out, collapsing to the side. The piece of the angel’s wing slips from his hands and falls to the ground,breaking in half. My hand aches from the force of my grip as I stagger back.

As I gasp and wheeze for air, I stare at the scumbag, almost mesmerized by the spurts of blood that pulse from his wound. I must have hit an artery. He’s panting like a dog, his hands shaking while he tries to get ahold of the scissors and apply pressure to his neck.

“Help me.” The rasp that leaves his lips is barely audible.

Really?He orchestrated the assassination of my father. Tried to kill my sister,twice. And God only knows how many times he tried to murder Massimo. But he wantsmyhelp?

I never thought myself capable of taking someone’s life. Then again, I never thought I could do many things that I’ve done. So, with my eyes fixed on his, I lift my foot and slam it down on the protruding handle of the scissors, thrusting them further into his flesh.

“That’s the obedient, well-bred, Italian girl for you.” I spit on his not-yet-cold body, then turn and rush to Massimo’s side.

“Hey.” Dropping to my knees next to him, I cup his face with my palms. “Look at me.”

Massimo’s eyelids flutter, and when he finally lifts them, he struggles to focus on me with uneven pupils.