Page 14 of Sweet Prison
Therefore, I don’t feel even an ounce of regret or shame as I follow after my father, snagging bits of the guests’ exchanges along the way. Catching a whisper here, a proclamation made in a low voice there. Collecting the info I’ll relay in my letter to Massimo tomorrow morning.
In the past, I dreaded attending these kinds of events and did everything I could to avoid them. Not anymore. I’d never admit it to anyone, but these days, I actually enjoy my father’s shindigs. To most people here, I’m invisible, and they have no idea the impact I have on their lives. Granted, it’s indirect and hardly life-altering. But still, it makes me feel as if I’m finally a part of this world.My world.Long have I wanted to be accepted into it, but I never had the guts to try to make it happen.
Until Massimo showed me the way.
I keep that feeling of fulfillment and purpose close to my heart, letting it wash over me as I weave between the guests, committing to memory every single detail he might find useful.
Batista Leone has arrived, and he’s standing next to Dad by the string quartet, speaking in hushed tones in the shadow of a cherry blossom tree. Based on the hardened set of my father’s jaw and his furrowed forehead, whatever they are discussing must be serious. I circle to the far side of the stage and stop just behind the cello player. The musical accompaniment is sophisticated and elegant but is a tad too loud, and I have to concentrate to hear what my father and the underboss are saying.
“Brio has a valid point,” Leone says as he takes a long sip of his whiskey, making an awful sound as if he’s slurping soup. I cringe, disgusted with the man’s lack of decorum. “Offering coke at the casinos would bring in dozens of new, well-payingcustomers each month. Why not integrate these two very profitable businesses under the same umbrella?”
“Because members of the Family are listed as part of the ownership group, Batista. If the DEA got wind of this, we’d all go down.”
“We could offer the product only to select clients, those who have proven to be reliable. Do it under the table, so to speak.” Leone shifts toward my father, and I’m forced to lean closer so I don’t miss the rest of his comment. “Just a few transactions here and there.”
“And what if someone talks? Word spreads quickly, you know that.”
“We can offer cut-rate prices, conditional on them keeping their mouths shut. With that, there’s basically, no risk. Think about it, Nuncio.”
My father looks down at his drink, contemplating the idea, and after a few tense seconds, he nods so slightly it’s barely noticeable.
I shake my head. He can’t actually be considering it, right?
Two other men join my father and Leone, and each lights up a foul-smelling cigar amid raucous laughter. I take a step back. Keeping to the edge of the lawn, I head toward the house, away from the smoke and the scheming Cosa Nostra cronies.
Once in my room, I take a quick shower, then pull the box of Massimo’s letters from under my bed. My treasure. There are nearly fifty simple white envelopes inside, so I had to change the hiding place from my closet to an old, rustic wooden chest—shoved as far back underneath the bed frame as I could manage—to keep them safe. All are carefully sorted in the order I received them.
In my latest letter to Massimo, I asked him for dating advice. Not that I’m going out with anyone, or even planning to. I just wanted to see what he’d say. So I lied, mentioning that a boy at school had been hitting on me. Massimo probably found my question stupid. A teenage girl asking a man over thirty, one who spent close to half his life in prison , for dating tips. I’m not sure what possessed me to ask him something so foolish. Or maybe I am, but admitting the truth would only make me feel even more like a fool.
Because the truth is… I wanted to make him jealous.
When Massimo finally started replying to my letters, his words spiked my curiosity. He’s this strange, intriguing entity, so close but at the same time so removed, and I wanted to know more about him. And as I got more glimpses of him, of his magnificently cunning mind, curiosity transformed into admiration. At some point, though, that admiration blossomed into something else.
The way my heart skips a beat every time I receive one of his letters is not just excitement for a new task. When I sneak around, gathering information, it’s not because I’m concerned about the overall success of the Family. Not anymore. I’m doing it forhim. Because this new emotion I’m feeling is something deeper. Forbidden. And I try not to dwell on it.
I unfold Massimo’s latest letter and read the last paragraph again. It contains his response to my question about dating.
Guys are pigs, Zahara. Make sure you know his intentions before you start anything serious. Be careful, kiddo.
M.
I stare at the last word.
Kiddo.
He doesn’t care if I’m dating someone. And why would he?
It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, the same dry burn I almost choked on when I read it the first time.
Crumpling the paper into a ball, I carry it into the bathroom and flush it down the toilet.
“The return on our Cambridge investments shows a decline.” I lower the printout of the quarterly cash flow report. “Why?”
My stepfather shrugs in a seemingly casual manner, but he keeps playing with his pen. I know he hates coming to the prison to see me for our weekly “meetings,” although he’s never admitted it. “Rental rates have become too competitive, even with long-term leases. We had to decrease ours by ten percent.”
“I don’t remember approving that, Nuncio.”
“I didn’t want to bother you with something so insignificant. It’s just a few dozen condos.”