Page 21 of Sweet Prison

“Tell Mr. Wang that he needn’t be concerned for his boy’s well-being. And we’ll settle the debt at a later date.”

I watch Kiril leave, then reach into my pocket and take out the envelope that arrived this morning. My stepsister’s letters are usually several pages long. This one, however, is only a single sheet, with barely a few lines of text.

Are you okay? Dad told me you were injured and in the hospital ward. What happened? I called the prison to see how you’re doing, but they just told me you’re alive and hung up on me.

Zahara

Rage explodes inside me as I read the last sentence. I can’t have anyone in Cosa Nostra suspecting that I’m in any way involved with the Family. Nuncio and my lawyer are the only twoapproved people on my visitation list for that sole reason. And even though I pay a shit ton of money to make sure my mail remains undisturbed and I can have conversations with Nuncio without being recorded, I don’t have anyone in my pocket in the front office. So, my stepsister—with whom I’ve presumably had no contact for over a decade—calling the prison out of the blue, could raise a serious fucking red flag.

Whoever has been working behind my back, pulling the strings to keep me in here, is high in the Cosa Nostra hierarchy. It’s more than likely they have a source inside the prison keeping tabs on me. If anyone even suspects that Nuncio is my puppet, that he isn’t actually capable of doing his job, he’d lose the respect and loyalty of the Family and would be immediately removed. My schemes for a bloodless takeover would go to hell in a handbasket.

Another jolt of pain shoots through my side as I rise off the bench and head across the yard. In the corner, scribbling madly in his notebook, is a fresh pumpkin, his head still a little swollen from the welcome beating he received upon his arrival a few days ago. Hence, the name. It’s always the same with the new guys—they either crumble into fucking mush or learn quickly how to survive in this pisshole. I think this one might make it; he looks alright, not counting the present state of his head.

I still remember my own hoe check from the welcoming committee. Those three assholes wanted to see if I’d stand up for myself or roll over and play someone’s bitch. They jumped me in the shower, two holding me while the third used a pipe on my stomach like batting practice. I was caught completely unaware, and it took two hits to the gut and a kick to the head before I came to my senses. When I managed to break free of the guys pinning me down and get ahold of the pipe, they received my answer loud and clear. My nose never did heal properly fromthat run-in, and the part of my jaw the doctors had to patch up still stings occasionally. But none of my attackers were left smiling, either. And they haven’t since.

My stroll down memory lane ends just as I reach my target. Without a word, I grab the pen from the guy’s hand, then brace my stepsister’s letter on the wall and jot down a single line of text, right under hers.

Don’t you fucking dare call the prison ever again.

I’m halfway across the yard, heading toward one of the guards who “works” for me so I can get him to mail the note back to Zahara, when an unexpected pang of guilt hits me. Stopping in my tracks, I lift the letter and look over my message.

What?The asshole inside my head chimes in.The meaning can’t be more clear. The kid fucked up! She needs to know just how seriously she screwed the pooch so she doesn’t do it again. Or—don’t tell me—are you going soft?

Fuck you!I snap back at my ever-present peanut gallery.

You don’t have the luxury to second-guess shit.

I know that. So why the hell are these less than a dozen words I wrote bugging me?

With the sentencing appeal denied, the then twentysomething-year-old me accepted that I’d be locked up in this cage for the long haul. For a man in his prime, that pretty much equals death. Over the years I’ve been rotting away, that reality smacked me in the face again and again, every time my parole application was turned down. Men in these situations have different ways of coping. Some just take it day by day, existing rather than living, pining for the time they’ll get theirfreedom back. While others simply check out, like my first bunkie who was serving thirty years for a double homicide. He hanged himself with a bedsheet barely six months in.

My focus on maintaining control of the businesses and growing the Family’s wealth and influence have kept me sane. Everything I’ve done in the past decade and a half has been accomplished with that sole purpose in mind. I threatened. Maimed. Killed—with my own hands or by my orders—at least a dozen people. Some of those stood in the way of my ultimate goal and needed to be erased from the picture. Others were simply collateral to gain favors and garner IOUs from other influential players, ensuring I’ll have the resources and support I’ll need when I eventually get released and take back what is mine. I’ve survived by not giving a crap about people or their feelings. Everyone is either an obstacle that must be overcome or an asset that can be exploited.

Zahara has ended up being a very valuable asset that I am far from done making use of. She’s nothing more than that. Once I’m finally free, I’ll marry her off to someone who’ll offer a business advantage or cement a strategic alliance. I’ll do the same with her sister. Both of them are just pawns.

But as I look at my rapidly scrawled response to her letter, that guilt punches me in the chest all over again. She’s still just a kid who didn’t know any better.

I crumple the sheet of paper and stick it into the back pocket of my pants. Glancing to the left, I spot the pumpkin, still scribbling on his notepad in the corner of the yard. My long steps eat up the distance between us, and then I’m snatching the notebook and the pen from his hands again to write a new reply.

Zahara,

Please don’t call the prison again.

M.

Chapter 7

Almost a year later

(Zahara, age 18; Massimo, age 35)

The dark-blue cube van backs up to the open loading bay door. Every Sunday morning, it arrives to collect bins of dirty laundry and takes everything to another nearby correctional center to be dealt with. Keeping my eyes on the vehicle through the wisps of my frosty breath, I lean my shoulder on the cold wall of the docking area and wait for the truck to come to a stop. The driver-side window slides down, and instantly, a barely audible whistle sounds from inside the cab.

I grab one of the bins overflowing with mesh bags stuffed full of filthy shit and carry it to the back of the vehicle while the stink attacks my nostrils. Stacking the bin in the cargo hold of the cube van, I throw a look at the correctional officer supervising the work. He glances at the other two inmates handling the bins, then gives me a slight chin lift.

Casually, I head around the truck and lean my shoulder on the driver’s door. “You should have been here a week ago.”

“Apologies, boss.” Peppe’s low voice drifts through the open window. “My brother’s shift got changed, so I couldn’t take his place last Sunday.”