Page 17 of Sweet Prison
My most recent instructions to Zahara included directions for logging onto her father’s computer and getting the online statements for our legitimate bank accounts. I want to keep an eye on the finances as much as I can. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about our hidden accounts, the ones that are attached to our illegal dealings. Despite taking every precaution I could to ensure no one fucks with my mail, I still won’t risk mentioning anything incriminating on paper. For now, I’ll have to take Nuncio’s word on the status of those funds.
I open her letter and scan the first paragraph with a furrowed brow. The numbers appear to be completely off—two-digit values when the balances should be in millions. And then, it hits me. She omitted the zeros, just as I often do when I write to her. Clever girl.
The next few sentences are about her friend’s engagement party she attended a week prior. I doubt there’s anything useful to me in these. Yet, I still read them, every word.
The letter concludes, as usual, with her questions. Sometimes they are about my life behind bars, but more often than not, they are about me. As a person. I ignored them at first or deflected with short, vague answers. Recently, however, I find myself divulging more details.
I mainly told her about the small things I miss the most. (Metal utensils and regular dinnerware. Freedom to shower whenever the fuck I want. Normal street clothes.) My opinion on the Almighty. (I’m not a believer in a supreme, all-powerful force that miraculously impacts our lives.) Justice, and my views on right and wrong. (The rule of law and the principle of righteousness are a two-way street—the moral correctness of any action depends on which side you ask to define them.)
One time, though, she asked me about Elmo.Do you remember him? Can you tell me what he was like?It took mehours to compose the response to her. Not because I struggled to recall the facts and anecdotes. I didn’t. But because Elmo’s death is still a bleeding wound. Back then—as is now—I still blame myself for not getting to him sooner. For not saving him. I told her that, right before I relayed everything I knew and remembered about her brother. Everything, because she deserved to know him, too.
That was the one and only heavy message I sent her. The rest were a subsurface fluff. It felt strange and sort of silly to share those things with someone. Especially my little stepsister. It still feels that way, at times.
You should keep your focus on more important things instead of bitching about missing real forks.
I squeeze the bridge of my nose, hoping it will make the chatty asshole in my head go away. It doesn’t. The fucker continues to enjoy his permanent residence, as he has since he showed up.
It’s cushy here. Now, grab that pen and tell the girl to keep her ear to the ground. We need to know more if there’s talk of chicken on the menu.
“Use the other sink.” A girl’s whispered voice comes from behind me. “You don’t wanna catch thatthingshe has.”
I roll my eyes. Same old story, every time. I stopped explaining about my vitiligo long ago, so I just leave the bathroom without bothering to respond to these bitches. God, I’m so sick of them. It’s easier to handle everyone’s cattinesswhen Hannah is around. Although we aren’t particularly close, she never treats me like an outcast. But she broke her ankle last week and won’t be back at school for a while. Her family moved her into some fancy treatment facility specializing in sports and dance injuries where she could recover.
As I walk along the corridor to the main door, I keep my head down, my gaze trained no more than a handful of steps in front of me. I avoid meeting the eyes of anyone I pass, as I always do. This time, however, something is nagging me. It’s like an itch at the back of my neck. Something deep below the surface that I can’t just scratch away.
Nothing about this moment is different from any other—I bear the scorn of my schoolmates, whether they merely ignore me or openly stare as if I’m a freak. The usual. And, like a scared little mouse, I don’t look back at them. As usual.
My feet falter. That itch on my nape feels like more than simple irritation. I stop in the middle of the hall, staring at the tips of my shoes while my mind drifts to Massimo’s latest letter, and that one sentence in particular. It was probably nothing more than an afterthought, only a handful of words, but they ring loudly in my head.
You’re a menace, kid. Great job.
I certainly have never viewed myself as anything even remotely menacing. Someone like that exudes resolve and courage. Qualities I don’t think I possess. But maybe I do. After all, I’ve been sneaking into private places and spying on some of the most dangerous people in this city. And I’ve been sending coded messages to my stepbrother. In prison.
All that, and I’m still too intimidated to look a bunch of teenagers in the eyes. Why? Because I don’t want to see their contempt, their conviction that I’m somehow beneath them?
Maybe that’s why the back of my neck is itching, and the sensation is getting stronger with every second I continue to stare at the floor. Every atom in my body is buzzing in protest, rebelling against that downcast view.
Slowly, I lift my head. My gaze refocuses directly ahead of me, and I take my first step. And then another. Sure feet carry me forward until I walk out of the school with my head held high. And it feels so damn good.
As I approach the campus gates, I notice the absence of the shiny white SUV that usually drives me home. Instead, there’s a slick black sports car parked at the curb. With Capo Salvo Canali leaning on the hood.
“Mr. Canali?” I ask when I reach him. “Has something happened?”
“Salvo. Please. I sent Peppe back, told him I’ll drop you off at home.” In a much lower voice, he adds, “We need to talk.”
“Um… okay,” I mumble as I drop onto the passenger seat. What on earth could he possibly need to discuss with me? We’ve never actually spoken before.
Salvo gets behind the wheel and starts the car. Without a word, he pulls into traffic and proceeds to drive, and with every mile, the silence makes me feel more and more on edge. We’re almost at my house when I can’t stand it any longer.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“Your sanity,” he says through his teeth. “Spying on your father for Massimo?”
I stiffen. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“He told me. I can’t believe he’d resort to usingyou, of all people, in such a way.”
My hands tighten around the straps of my backpack. I’m certain if I looked at them, my knuckles would be white. Therealization that Salvo is one of Massimo’s other spies gets pushed aside when the rest of his words register. And the way he said them.