Page 43 of Sweet Prison
I know. But I fucking can’t.
Something transpired between us when our eyes met on the day of Nuncio’s funeral. What I saw in her piercing stare—her knowledge ofmeand understanding—that… shook me to mycore. As if I’ve been struck by lightning. Something changed at that moment. A huge, fundamental shift in me, like an electric current switching its direction after a sudden surge, heading where it was never meant to be. Set on a very worrisome, forbidden course. Instead of plotting a new way to reach my lifelong goal, every waking second for over three years, I’ve spent thinking about her. My stepsister.
Days became a battle for survival, not for my life but for my peace of mind, filled with endless waiting. For the time I’d see a CO carrying that envelope to me. I would then fucking inhale every single word she wrote. The parts about business, the ones that were my main interest before, those I skipped in favor of passages she’d penned about herself. Once I’d read the personal sections at least a couple of times, I forced my attention to the Cosa Nostra shit. And after that, I’d spend my days anxiously waiting for her next letter.
I tried to rationalize it, convince myself that it was only a familial bond. Anything else was simply a product of my screwed-up mind after spending nearly two decades in a cage. Fuck knows it’s hard enough to remain sane even during a short stint in the pen. I’m thankful as hell I can still count backward from ten. But I didn’t expect being stuck in that hole would turn me into a sick goddamned bastard.
One who’s fallen for his stepsister.
But that shit stops right fucking now.
I brought her with me because I couldn’t face the reality of no longer having her in my life. As a friend. A trusted ally.
Both are in short supply for me at the moment.
She knows me. I need her.
Nothing more.
“Let’s have a look inside.” I gesture toward the house, pulling myself out of my twisted thoughts.
A couple of white vans bearing the logo of a housekeeping service on their sides are parked on the driveway, not far from the main entrance. I thought I was clear in my instructions this morning that everyone had to be gone prior to my arrival. As we climb the chipped stone steps to the front door, I instinctively reach for the small of Zahara’s back.
She’s your stepsister. Drill that into your stupid brain. No touching!
I wrest my hand away. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with a stepbrother laying a supportive hand on his stepsister’s back. The problem is, as hard as I try, I can’t make myself see her as my stepsibling.
I open the front door and the hinges squeak from lack of use. Drawing a deep breath, I step inside the house that once was my refuge.
And enter chaos.
Halfway up the wide staircase facing the foyer, two women, wearing pale-blue uniforms that mark them as maids with the cleaning service, are polishing the banister. A guy, using an appliance that’s threatening to split my fucking head open with its noise, is buffing the marble floors nearby. On the right, through the column-flanked archway to the lounge area, I notice several more people buzzing around—vacuuming the furniture upholstery and dusting the light fixtures. There are more workers in the dining room off the left side of the foyer. A dozen people. Maybe more.
Anxiety surges within me, threatening to overwhelm me completely. I need these people out.
“Mr. Spada.” A man around my age, dressed in a pale-blue suit that matches the cleaning staffs’ uniforms, rushes toward me with a clipboard in hand. “We are slightly behind schedule. The second floor has been completed. New linens and towels have all been provided, as requested, and—”
“Out,” I rasp.
“—groceries have arrived. I had one of my employees put them into—”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to suppress the noise and the presence of all these people. But the idiot in front of me keeps talking, spewing some nonsense about the curtains. With every word, my agitation transforms into rage. I take a deep breath, hoping it will help subdue the urge to snap the ignorant prick’s neck.
My hair-trigger temper died in the ass during my time behind bars. Typically, being in familiar surroundings and around people I know helped calm me down. Marginally, at least. Since leaving the prison walls behind me, however, I’ve been hovering on the brink of bashing someone’s head in.
“—Oh, and what do you need us to do with—”
My eyes fly open. I grab the front of the bastard’s blue suit and lift him.
“I SAID, OUT!” I roar into his face. “EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU CUNTS!”
A light touch lands on my forearm. “Massimo, stop.”
The haze of red and the madness clouding my mind retreat a little. I release a long exhale, then lower the frantic housekeeping manager to the floor.
“Thank you for the amazing work,” Zahara says next to me. “Please gather your employees and leave. We’ll call you tomorrow to address whatever is outstanding.”
The man nods frantically, then sprints away, gesturing with his hand and ordering his people to depart. I stand motionless, staring aimlessly ahead, while workers dash past me one by one.