Page 12 of Sweet Prison
“The president of Chelsea Biker Gang and his second-in-command. Armed robbery, and they ghosted a couple of cops.” He nods toward the two burly guys standing in the corner, glaring at me from across the hall. “Want me to get you a weapon?”
“No need.” I bump his fist with mine in thanks and head toward the food line, keeping my eye on the newcomers.
Survival behind bars is no different from surviving in a jungle. The local animals are segregated into packs. There are small ones and some bigger factions, each ruled by its own leader, all constantly fighting to maintain their place in the foodchain. Everyone’s place in the hierarchy usually gets defined shortly after their arrival, and it depends on their connections, capabilities, and simply how mean the son of a bitch is. From time to time, a new fish or a dumbass who believes he’s some big shit, decides to challenge the apex predator and claim the seat of power for himself. Little do they know, in this shithole, I’m not only the alpha, I’m the jungle fucking king.
As I carry my chow toward the table by the narrow window, the two biker boys head in my direction. The taller one, sporting a bald head but a full beard, pulls a small switchblade from up his sleeve.
“You Spada?” the shorter guy asks when they reach me, smothering me with his bad breath and revealing a few missing teeth. His buddy stands next to him, gripping his weapon.
I set my tray on the table and smile. “You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t already know.”
He narrows his eyes and gives a barely noticeable nod. The bearded guy swings, aiming for my kidney.
I grab “Harry’s” forearm and slam his hand on the table, making the asswipe howl in pain when his wrist connects with the metal edge. With my free hand, I swipe the tray and strike it against “Shorty’s” face, sending beans and pasta flying all around. A punch to the MC president’s solar plexus dispatches the foul-mouthed fuck to trail after my lunch until he lands on his back a few feet away, allowing me to focus on his bearded companion, who’s still clutching the blade.
I swing at him, aiming for his head, but the scumbag moves and slashes at me, catching my forearm with his knife. Cursing, I grab his wrist with one hand and his beard with the other, then whack his head on my raised knee. Blood explodes from his nose and drips onto the concrete floor right next to where he dropped his steel.
Someone grabs me from behind to pull me away, but I snap my head back, my skull cracking against the motherfucker’s, and kick the biker’s shin. Shouts come from every direction as the all-out fight consumes the chow hall. It really doesn’t take much to entice this crowd to join the fray, and food, trays, and plastic cutlery soar overhead.
“Harry” charges me, once again gripping his blade. I kick his hand away and grab the front of his shirt, then send him flying across the room, where he drops head-first on one of the tables and remains down, unmoving. When I turn around, looking for his buddy, I find Kiril squeezing the dickwad’s neck in his massive fist. “Shorty’s” feet are dangling off the ground, while the Bulgarian slaps the biker gang leader’s face with his free hand.
“I’ve been a bad boy,” Kiril says, his manner as easygoing as always, then smacks the man’s face one more time. “And I won’t do it again.Say it.”
Pain explodes in my shoulder. I turn around and headbutt my new attacker. The fucktard tried to bury a plastic shiv in me. I’m just swinging at the idiot’s face when the alarms blast from overhead speakers, accompanied by the spray of white mist. I shut my stinging eyes, blindly sending my fist flying, and feel it connect with the soft tissue just before I succumb to a coughing fit.
Damn COs and their pepper spray.
Chapter 5
One year later
(Zahara, age 16)
Soft notes of a classical melody carry across the garden, blending with the chatter and laughter of dozens of guests mingling around the tables. The cherry tree that overhangs the small platform where the string quartet is playing is in full bloom, but there isn’t even a hint of its sweet scent in the air. Instead, perfume and cigar smoke suffuse the area, drowning everything else out and making my nostrils itch and burn. Like he always does, Dad insisted that I attend his annual spring cocktail party. As if there won’t be another occasion next month.
And the next.
It’s a necessary evil, I guess. A great number of business deals are conducted at these parties. Relaxing atmosphere, fancy food, expensive wine… All of that makes people more susceptible, much easier to sway toward a deal they might not be so inclined to accept in a more rigid business setting.
Tugging the sleeve of my dress down, I pull it over my wrist and continue watching elegantly dressed women chat and flirt with confident, influential men. Red dresses. Gold. Raspberry-pink. Short. Long, with thigh-high slits. All were chosen to attract attention.
I’m so fucking envious.
So many times, I’ve dreamed of wearing a gown like I see here. There’s a stack of sketches of beautiful dresses with open backs and low necklines hidden under my bed. I occasionally pull them out and imagine the fabrics that would best suit each design. Bittersweet fantasies, because I’d never make these dresses for myself. I don’t have the guts to wear them.
People staring at me and whispering words they don’t think I can hear always gets to me. It’s suffocating. I can’t handle it, so I try to stay far away from any kind of attention. Remain invisible to everyone around. Even to the waiter with a tray of drinks who passes by without offering me a beverage. Luckily, that invisibility has a few benefits.
With my eyes downcast, I step away from my hidey-hole near the wall and get lost amid the crowd in the garden.
“Is it true that Donatello is getting remarried?” a woman asks her date as I walk by.
It’s true.It’s also old news. I drift away from the couple and meander toward the right edge of the lawn where I spied Brio—one of my father’s capos—and his wife. Brio runs Cosa Nostra’s casinos, and from what I gathered by eavesdropping on the meeting he had with my father last week, there’ve been some problems in that business. Lingering at the hors d’oeuvres table just behind them, I pretend to be captivated by the selection and load up a small plate while listening in to their whispered conversation.
“The don won’t budge,” Brio says in a low voice. “We can make a shitload of money, but Nuncio didn’t want to even hear about it. Who the fuck cares if the players want to take a few sniffs here and there? It will just make them more amenable to spend their cash.”
I raise an eyebrow. Brio seems like he’s still hell-bent on getting cocaine into our casinos. Interesting. I wait to see if he’llsay more, but another man approaches, and the conversation shifts to the latest football game. Shame. Abandoning my plate and grabbing a glass of mineral water, I head to the other side of the garden.
In addition to the high-ranking Family members, there are also a fair number of people who are not Cosa Nostra present here. A few government officials, most of whom are on the Mafia’s payroll. A handful of B-list celebrities. Lawyers, lots of those. As well as CEOs and major shareholders of several big-ass corporations. All of them, in some way, are connected to Cosa Nostra, be it through business dealings or bribes.