Page 19 of Sweet Prison
“It’s a state prison, Zara. There are always skirmishes among incarcerated men, and Massimo is a high-profile individual.” Dad motions dismissively, as if he’s discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. “He’ll be fine.”
Anger roils in my stomach as I stare at my father. How can he be so unperturbed? Massimo might not be his flesh and blood, but he’s a living, breathing human being. Not to mention, the sole reason for every success my father has experiencedand continues to enjoy. Like the countless business connections. The money. The unquestioning loyalty of the Cosa Nostra capos and soldiers. And the respect and adoration of the rest of the Family. Each time one of them bowed and kissed Dad’s hand to acknowledge the security and prosperityhebrought them, they should actually have been thanking and praising Massimo instead. Without Massimo, my father would not have lasted a year as the don. He would have been relieved of his duties, removed, or maybe even “retired.” Nuncio Veronese is nothing without my stepbrother. And he knows it.
Maybe that’s the reason Dad hates Massimo so much.
“Thank you for the paper,” I say with a strained smile and leave my father’s office without looking at him.
Back in my room, I head straight for my backpack and pull out my phone. I’ve never called the prison before, so it takes me a few minutes of googling to find the right number. My fingers tremble as I press the call button and then listen to the ringing on the line for nearly a minute before it disconnects.
Shit.Breath leaves my lungs in short bursts as I hit redial. With every grating buzz in my ear, it’s becoming harder to draw in enough oxygen. Finally, after the sixth ring, a rather bored-sounding male voice answers.
“I’d like some information on one of your inmates,” I choke out. “Massimo Spada. He’s been taken to the hosp—”
“Name?” he drawls.
“Um… Zahara Veronese. I’m his stepsister.”
The sound of what I’m certain are two pointer fingers hitting the keyboard drags on for an eternity.
“He’s alive.”
Dead air replaces the gruff voice on the line.
I stare at my phone.He’s alive. That’s all I get? I wasn’t expecting the prison admin to be super forthcoming, but I hoped he’d give me more than a two-word reply, damn it.
Reaching into the nightstand drawer, I grab the notebook I use to write letters to Massimo and tear out a sheet from the middle. I should probably let him know that Batista Leone has visited Dad an absurd number of times in the last few weeks, but my stupid “report” is the last thing on my mind right now.
With my letter written and in hand, I grab the nearest stack of sketches for my new designs and basically fly down the stairs to look for Peppe.
I can’t wait for Massimo’s usual response. It could take days. I need to know what’s happening. This minute! Speaking with Salvo is my only option; maybe he knows something. But I don’t have his number, and there is no way I could ask Dad for it that wouldn’t raise suspicion. I also can’t just show up at Salvo’s home to simply have a chat.
Luckily, I’ve got an idea.
Salvo’s mother complimented my dress at one of the dinners I attended with Dad. The next day, she called, asking if I’d consider making a custom-designed gown for her. I declined. But it appears, I’ve changed my mind. Why else would I be heading to her house now?
And maybe, just maybe, Salvo will be home.
I find Peppe in the kitchen, munching on snacks.
“I need you to drive me over to Canali’s,” I choke out.
***
“Yes, this one would be perfect,” Rosetta Canali says while admiring a sketch of a sleeveless gown with a built-in corset anda big bow at the back. “Could you make it in royal blue satin?”
“Blue satin would be great.” I nod and leap off the chaise lounge, practically snatching the paper out of her hand. “Okay. I have your measurements, so I’ll get started on this over the weekend.”
“Wonderful. I’m so excited, dear. You should seriously consider getting into the fashion industry.”
Yeah, sure. My dad would be thrilled to have his daughter work as a seamstress for women below her social standing. “I will. Um… Is Salvo here? I’d like to say hi.”
“Of course. He’s in the study. Let’s go and— Oh, there he is.” She waves toward the double doors that connect the salon with the library. “Salvo, darling, Zara has changed her mind and agreed to design a dress for me. She even came all the way here so I could look at her sketches.”
“Did she now?” Salvo says from the doorway. His face is set in hard, reproachful lines. I don’t think he’s buying my “I’m just here to make a dress” cover story. He leans on the jamb, partially blocking the exit. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes,” I say, then mouth,We need to talk.
If it’s possible, the expression on his face seems to darken even further. Over the past months, we’ve been running into each other at various events. Despite my best efforts to avoid him, each time he’s found a way to discreetly approach me and lecture me on how foolish I am to involve myself in such a dangerous game. It’s annoying as hell. I liked Salvo much better before he found out what I was doing for Massimo—when he was absolutely ignorant of my existence.