Page 2 of Sweet Prison
McBride is babbling some lawyer crap at me again, his tone almost hysterical. Something about how I’m making this worse, but the words just graze my mind, caught in the ringing in my head that’s only getting stronger. Hands, several pairs, grab my arms and push me toward the door on the side of the courtroom. I keep looking over my shoulder, searching for Judge Collins. Waiting for him to put a stop to this madness. Glancing back, every couple of steps, even as I’m being led down the narrow hallway toward the holding cell where I changed into my freshly pressed suit less than twenty minutes prior. My legs seem to be moving on nothing but muscle memory.
“Two minutes, Spada.” One of the guards reaches for my handcuffed wrists. “Your transport is waiting.”
“Two minutes for what?”
“For you to change your digs.” He pushes me into the room and nods to the far corner.
Acid surges up my throat, burning my flesh, as I follow his gaze to the rickety bench.
There, on top of the wooden boards covered in cracked and peeling paint, lies a neatly folded pile of clothes.
Denial. Blind rage. Helplessness. The chaos of different emotions hits me, all of them washing over me at the same time, and suddenly, I can’t fucking breathe. Can’t move. Can’t think. The only thing I can do is stare at the bright orange stack of clothes on that bench, searing my fucking corneas.
Chapter 2
Three months earlier, New Year’s Eve
Home of Nuncio Veronese (Boston Cosa Nostra Don)
The smell of dried oregano and fresh produce tucked away in wooden crates on the shelves wars with the slight scent of mold hanging in the air. There are no windows, and the only source of light is the single fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling, throwing a yellow glow on a disheveled, sniveling mess of a man. Carlo Forino. Two of my guys flank him, keeping him from leaping off the stool his ass is currently planted on.
I flip a chair around and straddle it, hanging my forearms off the sturdy wooden back while I observe this pitiful excuse of a human. Carlo is breathing rapidly, practically hyperventilating, but he avoids meeting my gaze. He knows why he’s here. And he knows what’s coming.
His labored breaths mix with the subdued tones of a piano drifting in through the closed door. Even though the party is largely happening in the main hall on the other side of the mansion, the sounds carry all the way here, to this out-of-the-way pantry.
“Where’s our money, Carlo?” I ask.
“Business hasn’t been going well at the bar, Massimo,” the man chokes out. “But it’s just a bit of a rough patch. I swear I’ll pay you guys back. I just need a few more days.”
I cross my arms over the top of the chair and cock my head. “Your business troubles don’t have any bearing on our deal. The due date was yesterday.”
“Next week. I’ll have it all next week.”
“Alright.” I nod and turn to Peppe, who’s standing to the left of me. “There are meat shears in the drawer over there. Cut off his pinkie.”
“Massimo.” Elmo’s voice comes from the corner of the room. “Is that really necessary? He said he’ll pay.”
I look over my shoulder, pinning my stepbrother with my stare. His face has a peculiar greenish hue, and he’s fidgeting with his hands. Even in his fancy, tailored tux, he still looks like a kid. Elmo turned eighteen last week, and his father, the don of the Boston Cosa Nostra, figured it was time his son was more involved in the Family’s dealings. This “meeting” was supposed to be Elmo’s introduction to the less savory side of the business.
Too bad Elmo is not cut out for this life. Much like his father, actually.
“We’re not a charity institution, Elmo. You don’t want this scumbag to go around telling peopleLa Famigliahas gone soft, do you?”
A howling wail reverberates through the room.
“No but…” Elmo’s gaze wanders toward Carlo, who, by the sounds of it, has just lost his finger. “Dear God. I… I’m going to be sick.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose and exhale. “Leave, Elmo.”
“You know I can’t. Dad said—”
“And I said,get the fuck out!” If he loses the contents of his stomach in front of our men, he’ll lose their respect. And in Cosa Nostra, respect is everything.
I get up and approach my stepbrother, ignoring Carlo’s increasingly pathetic wails. Elmo’s face has gone so pale it looks translucent. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I squeeze it reassuringly. “I’ll talk with Nuncio and make sure he comes to his senses. Have you decided on a college?”
“Yes, but… I don’t think he’ll let me. He wants—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Nuncio wants. Consider the whole thing done. And stop fidgeting with your damn tie.” I adjust the bow that was tied askew at his collar. The kid isn’t a suit guy, that’s for sure. My tailor nearly had a meltdown trying to make Elmo stand still while taking his measurements. “Go, enjoy the party. I’ll be there in a bit.”