Page 35 of Sweet Prison
“Fine,” she says, tugging down the cuff of her sleeve. “How are you going to make Leone accept the idea of marriage to Nera?”
“Salvo will come see her tomorrow, and he will bring her some documents. It’s all she’ll need. Leone will agree to everything.”
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
Zahara nods.
“You are not as I imagined you, you know?” I admit. At her questioning look, I add, “No pigtails.”
A tiny smile pulls at her lips as her gaze moves up to the top of my freshly shaved head. “You’re not as I imagined you, either. No hair.”
I chuckle. The sound seems strange. There aren’t many things that have made me laugh in the past decade and a half.
“Promise me you will be careful,” I whisper. “Please.”
“I will.”
Charily, I bow my head. “Make sure Peppe comes with you when you move to Leone’s. Keep him close.”
Her eyebrow arches. “He’s one of yours, then?”
“Yes. If things go south, he’ll know what to do.”
She doesn’t argue, doesn’t question. We just stand there as I drink her in. Yesterday, Nera told me that Zahara has vitiligo. That’s what the skin discoloration on her face is. I’d never heard of the condition before, so I grabbed the phone from Sam to google it, needing to know if it’s causing her pain or other ill effects. It doesn’t, which is a relief. I can’t handle the idea of anything hurting Zahara.
Jesus fuck, I can’t believe I placed her into a position where she needed to take so many risks for me. Because of my selfish plans. And she’ll be doing it again. But this time, the stakes are much, much higher.
I let the image of her etch itself on my mind because I know it’ll be years before I’ll see her. Seconds, then minutes pass whilewe stare at each other in silence, surrounded by the dull gray of cold confinement.
“You should go now,” I make myself say.
“Okay.” She breaks our locked stare and pivots toward the door, her eyes slowly casting downward.
As she passes me, our arms brush against each other. Without thinking, I reach out and take her hand.
Zahara’s sharp intake of breath echoes through the room. She stops. We stand next to each other at the center of the gloomy space—she is facing the door, and I’m staring at the wall on the opposite side. I can feel her heartbeat where the heel of my palm is pressed to the pulse point on her wrist.
“Don’t get killed,” I whisper.
“Don’t kill anyone else,” she whispers back. “At least, not in front of witnesses.”
A small smile twists my lips. I stroke her wrist one last time and reluctantly let her hand slip out of mine.
Her heels tap on the hard concrete floor.
Walking away.
Taking that peaceful serenity with her.
Chapter 11
Letter #159
Dear Massimo,
In your last letter, you were curious about how we’re handling all the new things in our lives. No need to worry, Nera and I have settled into our new home. Everything is different but going as well as you can expect.