Page 4 of Sweet Prison
Nuncio is not a bad man. And that’s his worst fault. He’s not fit to be in charge of a Mafia Family because when it comes to the dark side of our business, the side that requires horridand vile work, he doesn’t have the stomach for it. That became abundantly clear shortly after he took over. The first time he needed to kill a man, the poor bastard almost fainted. He couldn’t even manage to put a bullet into the head of a snitch, ending up hitting the fucker’s shoulder instead. Thank fuck it was only me and him in the room. I had to step in and finish the job. I was Elmo’s age then. And it wasn’t even my first kill.
Gory stuff aside, I hoped Nuncio would at least persevere in other areas. But he proved himself absolutely incapable of handling the Family’s business dealings and finances, too. Can’t say he didn’t try, though. Within three months of taking over, he funneled all our laundered cash into a big-ass construction project but failed to analyze the risks or calculate the anticipated costs. We lost our liquidity and were left with a half-finished residential block in the suburbs and no money to finish the build. I had to leverage several of my father’s connections to find investors ready to buy the units before the gray shell phase was complete. After that fiasco, Nuncio started consulting with me on all investments. By my nineteenth birthday, unbeknownst to the rest of the Family, I was making every business decision in the don’s stead.
So Nuncio and I struck our own deal. I do the heavy lifting. Manage the finances. Call the shots on investments. Maim and kill people when necessary. And he puts up with the asinine, pompous bullshit, like hosting a party for people who’d stab you in the back the moment you turned or going to fundraisers and sweet-talking the important people we need on our side. And when I turn twenty-five, he’ll make me a capo. Then, his underboss. And when the time feels right, when I’m seen as “old enough” to take over the reins of the Family, he’ll step down. If he doesn’t, I’ll just kill him.
“Hey, Massimo.” Brio, the capo running our casinos catches up to me as I’m making my way through the crowd. “Did Boss say anything about the expansion plan I presented last week?”
“Yes.” I grab a flute of champagne off a waiter’s tray. “He said it’s an epic load of crap. At the current revenue level, no expansion for the next two years at the minimum.”
“Fuck! I spent weeks working out the details, looking for suitable locations for the new casino. I even researched…” I let Brio continue his incessant babbling, complaining about the “don’s” decision, and take in the people in the room.
It’s almost midnight, so everyone is having a good time, more or less wasted on free-flowing champagne. I pretend not to notice the two tiny shapes hiding behind the banister on the second-floor landing. My stepsisters love sneaking out of bed and spying on guests during parties. Mother will have their hide if she sees them.
Nera was three when my mother married Nuncio, and Zahara was still a baby, barely a year old. Both think of my mother as their own. They even call her “Mom.” I don’t mind. The little brats are a nuisance I simply try to ignore, but Mother loves them like they are her own flesh and blood. I’m glad. I was never a cuddly child interested in hugs and kisses. I’m happy she finally has the chance to be a loving, caring mom to two girls who crave her warmth the way I never did.
My eyes travel to a couple half-hidden by a marble column in the entryway as they murmur suggestively to each other. Looks like Elmo is trying to sweet-talk Tiziano’s sister. Christ, she’s nearly twice his age and will easily chew him up and spit him out, undoubtedly breaking his heart.
For some absolutely unexplainable reason, I’ve connected with my stepbrother. Maybe it’s because he’s the only truly good-hearted person I know, aside from my mother. Thereisn’t a single evil bone in the boy’s body, despite being born into a Mafia world and constantly surrounded by snakes. He’s everything I’ll never be. Kind. Thoughtful, especially about the people around him. And selfless to a fault.
Deep down, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a brother. As a boy, I craved a confidant of my own with whom I could share my worries. How much pressure I felt to meet Father’s expectations. The taste of acid in my mouth every time I had to maim or kill a man. And the hollow feeling that eventually set in when that sour taste numbed.
All too soon, that bitter burn no longer lodged in my throat. I got used to it. The job became like any other. But once in a while, a stray thought invaded my mind. A feeling of wrongness for taking lives without being even remotely perturbed about it. On the other hand, I realized I’d stopped feeling the strain I’d been under. And that realization made me even more fractured.
I could never admit those concerns to my father, not without appearing weak. And telling my mother was always out of the question. She still clings to the illusion that her son is a good person. But a brother? Yes, I could confide in a brother. And Elmo is the closest I have to that.
That’s probably why I feel this weird compulsion to protect Elmo from the clutches of those who would use him for their own selfish needs. His dreams include college and a normal life. And I’ll make damn sure that happens.
Amid the festivities, raised voices ring out somewhere near the front door. My gaze snaps over to the entrance where two, obviously drunk, men are arguing.Jesus.I’m looking around the room, trying to spot one of our security guards to throw the idiots out, when fists start flying. One shoves the other, yelling into his adversary’s face, and reaches inside his jacket.
I immediately head toward them and out of the corner of my eye, see Elmo doing the same. “Elmo!” I roar. “Get back!”
He either doesn’t hear my command or decides to ignore me, thinking he can calm the situation. I’m running full speed, but since he was closer, Elmo reaches the enraged men mere seconds before I do.
My fingertips nearly brush his jacket when I lunge for him to pull him away, just as an ear-shattering boom splits the air.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, the sound of that gunshot is the only thing I hear.
No music. No laughter. Just an earthshaking blast. And then, Elmo stumbles backward, colliding with my chest.
Screams explode around us.
“Elmo!” I yell, wrapping my arm around his body to support him.
The fabric of his tux is wet against my palm, and his blood oozes over my hand. Seeing nothing but red, I let savage rage consume me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware that there are too many people here, too many witnesses. A good portion of them are not members of the Family. Including Boston’s chief of police.
I don’t care.
Not giving a fuck about the repercussions, I reach behind my back and pull out my Glock. With my next breath, an animalistic roar leaves my throat, and I send the bullet flying between the eyes of the motherfucker who just shot my stepbrother.
Chapter 3
Eleven years later
(Zahara, age 14)
“Hey, check it out! Isn’t that our resident leper girl?”
Laughter rings out around me. I drop my chin even lower and gripping the stack of books in my arms, hasten my steps. The sickening tingle at the back of my neck ratchets up as I squeeze between the students in the hallway and their judgmental stares.