Page 18 of Sweet Prison
“Why not me?” I ask.
“Why?” His eyes cut to me and then back to the road. “Because you’re barely fucking sixteen! I mean, I know what Massimo is like, but this…Fuck!That manipulative motherfucker.”
“‘Manipulative motherfucker’?” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought the two of you were friends.”
“We are. It’s just… I can’t believe he’d exploit a child for his devious schemes.”
“I’m not a child. And I guess you don’t know him very well, then. If you did, you’d know that he’d do anything in his power to achieve his goals. Besides, it can hardly be called ‘exploitation’ if the other party is fully aware of the situation and has accepted the terms. And I am, and have. So it’s simply a mutually beneficial agreement.”
Salvo rakes his hand through his hair, shaking his head as if he can’t accept my response. He parks in our driveway and turns off the engine, a scowl darkening his face. “Jesus fuck. I thought you were a nice, meek girl who’s only interested in making your little dresses.”
Yeah. Just like everyone else. Except for themanipulative motherfuckerwho happens to be my stepbrother. He doesn’t think me incapable. Or inadequate. I grit my teeth and look Salvo right in the eye. “That just proves you don’t know me, either.”
Salvo’s expression moves between shock and incredulity. Taking advantage of his dumbfounded state, I throw open the car door and step out.
“Please keep your nose out of my business, Salvo,” I whisper-yell, slamming the door shut.
As soon as I’m in my room, I grab my notebook and tear out a sheet of paper. I usually fill my letters with a myriad of details—about Cosa Nostra, school, my sewing—enough that I ramble on for at least a couple of pages each time. Now, however, I scribble a single sentence. No greeting. No signature. Just a burning question.
Do you think I’m meek?
Massimo’s response arrives three days later. A lone sentence to match my own.
You might be many things, Zahara, but I’m afraid “meek” isn’t one of them.
The airy smile hasn’t left my face since I read his words.
Chapter 6
One year later
(Zahara, age 17)
The door to my father’s office opens without a sound. Nevertheless, I throw another look down the hall to make sure no maids are around, then step inside.
“Zara? Do you need something?”
I startle, gaping at my father sitting behind his massive maple desk. He closes the folder in his hands, the expression on his face is of clear surprise—I barged into his space without an invitation. Well, I wasn’t expecting him to be here. I’ve gotten used to sneaking into Dad’s office on the regular to search for whatever Massimo needs. Whenever Dad isn’t home, obviously. And today is Thursday. He shouldn’t be here!
Every Thursday morning, my father leaves early to visit Massimo in prison. He spends hours at the correctional facility and doesn’t return home until late in the afternoon. The routine is like clockwork, and it didn’t even cross my mind to check that today was the same before I came down here.
“Um…” I throw a quick glance at the imposing grandfather clock in the corner. Just after one. Dad never returns before three. “I’m out of paper for my sketches, so I thought I could borrow some from your printer.”
“Sure.” He grabs a few sheets out of the tray and offers them to me. “Are you wearing makeup, sweetheart?”
My hand flies up to my face. Over the past several weeks, I’ve been trying different brands of foundation, fruitlessly searching for one that doesn’t irritate my skin. This latest is labeledhypoallergenicandfor sensitive skin, and so far, it’s a bit better than the others. There’s no rash, but my skin still itches.
“Yes.” I accept the paper from him. Going for casual, I comment, “You’re back early today.”
“Yeah. Massimo is still in the hospital ward and can’t have any visitors.”
The blank sheets slip from my fingers, falling to the floor. Hospital ward? My pulse skyrockets. I try to draw a calming breath, but it feels as if someone has wrapped their hands around my neck, squeezing tightly.
“Is… is he okay?” Somehow, I manage to form the words.
“Oh sure.” Dad shrugs and looks down at the printout he’s pulled out. “Just a stab wound to his side. It happens.”
It happens? His nonchalant tone communicates loudly that this is a more or less regular occurrence. Dad doesn’t sound worried at all. I crouch to pick up the fallen sheets, noticing that my hands shake as I lift the paper. “So… this isn’t the first time?” I ask, trying to keep my composure.