Page 40 of Sweet Prison
Letter #295
Zahara,
What sort of bug? A flu? A cold? Did you see a doctor and have them check you out?
Why am I even asking? I know you haven’t. You can’t treat your health so casually, Zahara!
Peppe is following my explicit directions and will continue to do so. That’s nonnegotiable, and I consider the discussion finished. Especially with that crazy son of a bitch living under the same roof as you.
I asked around about your sister’s stalker-boy and if even half of what I learned is true, that man is seriously fucked-up. He might love Nera and may be committed to keeping the three of you safe, but I still want you to stay away from him.
M.
PS: Yes. 6,387 down; 181 left to go. I’ve been keeping count since the day Istepped foot in this dump.
PPS: If Mazur ever gives you any trouble, I want to know about it. I’ll make sure friends of mine introduce themselves to him, just as they did with your school buddy, Kenneth.
Chapter 14
All four of my spools of beige thread are gone. I sigh. Lucia must have taken them to play with. Her newest favorite pastime these days is stealing the bobbins from the basket that sits under my work table and weaving the fibers around and between the legs of the chair and the table, creating a jumbled mess, a sort of net-looking thing. When I asked her about it, she said she was a spider.
I can’t believe how fast the little munchkin is growing. She’s almost three and such a smart cookie. And on top of that, she has me firmly wrapped around her tiny finger. Or maybe just caught in her pint-sized spider web.
I smile thinking about my niece.
Heading to the living area, I continue my search, collecting the discarded sketches off the coffee table and couch along the way. My apartment at Leone Villa is always a mess. Nera says my stuff spreads as fast as the flu. Zippers, sewing magazines, and partly cut-out patterns litter the floor and furniture. The only stuff I keep organized are things like scissors and needles. Lucia could hurt herself with their sharp points and edges, and I can’t have that.
I find my tape measure along with some fabric scraps under one of the cushions, but no reels of thread. I’ll have to run out to buy replacements if I want to finish the new dress for Salvo’s mother on time. It’s probably the tenth I’ve made for her thus far. She’s been keeping me busy, enough that I had to replaceMom’s old sewing machine with a new one. Still, my skills are hardly couture for Rosetta to use me exclusively to make her outfits, but it sure seems like she stopped purchasing gowns off the rack. I think that’s Salvo’s doing. He must be pressuring her to deal with me somehow.
Every time I’m at their house to take Mrs. Canali’s measurements or have her try on a dress, Salvo happens to be there. Considering the randomness of my visits, it can’t be a coincidence.
I’ve stayed as far away from Salvo as I could over the years, so why the fuck does he keep insisting we should go out for lunch? There’s just something off-putting about him. When he’s at the Villa to meet with Nera, I don’t leave my room until he’s gone. Maybe it’s my lack of intimate experience with men, but Salvo’s subtle advances are starting to creep me out.
Hopefully, I can avoid him at Brio’s party that’s coming up next month. I wanted to skip it altogether, but in light of recent developments—specifically, the discovery that Capo Armando is the person behind the assassination attempts on my sister—I need to be there to gather intel about where the rest ofLa Famigliastands.
Kai has kept Armando locked up in our basement since last night, and from what Nera has told me, he intends to question him. I hope he’ll get on with it soon so I can write to Massimo and mail the letter by five. The last thing I want is for it to sit in the collection box the whole weekend. God only knows how I’m going to wrap up that report in a way that wouldn’t raise any red flags if my letter were intercepted by a prison guard. It’s not as if I can say:Hey, my brand new brother-in-law just finished cutting the fingers off the guy we’ve had stashed in the basement, and here’s what we learned.
Hmm, maybe I could use the turkey analogy?
How about:Kai fowled the turkey that tried to bite off the head of the mommy hen. He finished de-winging and de-legging the beast, and…No, that sounds stupid. Maybe I should use “pluck” instead.
Spotting a golden strip peeking from under the couch, I reach for it just as I hear the door behind me open.
“I put Lucia down for a nap in your room,” I say, rolling up the ribbon I’ve pulled out. “Did Kai’s weird friends finally leave?”
“They did.” A raspy male baritone rumbles at my back.
Somewhere in the universe, two neutron stars collide. The force of that impact travels through me. I know that voice. I’ve been listening to it day and night, playing the two-minute recording of his call on repeat like an obsessed woman. Goose bumps break out across my arms, and all the fine hairs rise as if an electric current just zapped through me. His voice sounds deeper in person. More intense. It’s been years since I heard it from only steps away, but I could never forget it. With my breath caught in my throat, I stand up and turn around.
Massimo is lingering in my doorway, his huge form dominating the space, sucking all the oxygen from the room. The perfectly tailored gray suit he’s wearing fits him like it’s bespoke, accentuating his wide shoulders. The two top buttons of his white dress shirt are undone, revealing hints of the colorful ink on his chest and neck. He looks so polished, so civilized, that for a moment, I find it hard to believe he is the same unscrupulous man who’s been haunting me for years. But when my eyes lock with his, I realize it’s just an illusion. He is the same vicious predator I’ve come to know so well. Only shrouded in fancy clothing.
Is this real? Is he? Or is it just my imagination playing tricks? There are still six months left of his sentence. How can he be here?
I gape at Massimo as he strides across the room, his long steps eating the distance between us way too fast. And once again I find myself battling temporal quicksand. Held captive by my fate but unable to accept it. Years of wanting to be with this man does not mean I’m ready to face him now. I should be used to this feeling. After all, when I went to see him in prison, it took me three hours to psych myself up before I was able to walk through that door.
He stops just in front of me and lifts his hand, then lightly brushes my cheek with his knuckles. “Hello, Zahara.”
A shiver runs down my spine. It’s as if I’m trapped in a time warp and the scene at my father’s funeral is repeating. Heisreal.