Page 47 of Sweet Prison
“Why?”
Because I’m in love with you.I can’t tell him that, so I aim to redirect. “I’m going to call some of the people who worked for us at Dad’s house and ask them to come by. There were a few reliable ones at Leone’s, as well.”
“No. I don’t trust them.”
“But you’d trust total strangers?” I lift an eyebrow. “I understand you’re being extra cautious, especially with Armando getting killed while locked up in Leone’s basement. However, you’re aware of what happened this morning. You need to hire people from our world. Those who know to keep their mouths shut. And who can handlecomplicatedemployers.”
“Fine. Only the ones you vouch for, though.”
I nod. “By the way, what happened with Armando’s body?”
“I had Salvo take care of it.” He throws me a sideways look. “What happened with the pantsuit you made for his mother? The one with the green velvet thing on the shoulder. Did she wear it?”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Remember it?” His lips pull into a smirk. “I had nightmares about the blasted thing. The hidden zipper. The underlining that had to be sewn inside out. You wrote about that damn garment in at least three of your letters. Maybe even four.”
I laugh. I’m amazed he actually remembers all those details.
Massimo’s eyes drop to my lips. “You should smile more often.”
My body goes still. “Why?”
“Because it makes the world seem like a nice place, for a change.”
I suck in a breath. Our gazes meet, and, for a scattering of heartbeats, we just stare into each other’s eyes. The moment seems to last forever, but even if that was true, it still wouldn’t be long enough. We both look away a fraction of a second later.
“I need to head over to the North End,” he says, eyes fixed on the unlit fireplace. “It’s Saturday, so most of the foot soldiers will be hanging out at their usual watering hole there.”
“You’re going to talk to them before meeting with the capos?”
“Those coddled old cronies are the ones who need words to be convinced. The men who risk their lives and bear most of the actual burden required for the Family to flourish don’t need long speeches. They judge people by their actions. The oath the soldiers took when they joined Cosa Nostra promises their freely given loyalty to the organization. But if a leader wants their respect, that’s something he’llneed to earn.” He looks at his wristwatch. “We should head out now.”
I blink. “We?”
“Armando’s death wasn’t self-inflicted. I’m not leaving you in an unguarded house alone, Zahara.”
A mirthless laugh escapes my lips. “No one would ever go to all that trouble just to kill me.”
Massimo’s hand shoots out so quickly that I nearly miss the movement. He grasps my chin with an unyielding yet gentle grip. The hard lines of his face draw near, and there’s a murderous look in his eyes that does funny things to my insides. “You’re going to point out anyone who has ever madeyou feel inferior, and I’m going to separate their heads from their spines.”
“It’s just… I’m hardly a threat to anyone, Massimo.”
A corner of his lips curves upward. “Only because they don’t yet realize what you are.”
“What?”
He leans in until his face is right in front of mine. “Just point a finger. And see what happens.”
Air gets trapped in my lungs as I watch the dangerous glint in Massimo’s eyes. He’s so close, and I battle the urge to stretch and press my lips to his. The distance between us is so small, that in a fraction of a heartbeat, I could be feeling the heat of his firm mouth on my own. I pull my lower lip between my teeth, biting it to stop myself from succumbing. Massimo tenses. His gaze drops down to my lips and lingers. Then, as fast as if he’d been burned, he releases my chin and straightens.
“We need to make a pit stop at the gas station on the way. I’ll go get my wallet.”
***
To celebrate birthdays and weddings, the Family usually prefers high-end restaurants around the city. However, for more intimate occasions, one of the cozy Italian-owned places in North End is usually a go-to choice.
The narrow alley where Massimo has parked his car has nothing in common with the colorful neighborhood I’m familiar with. There are no stores with trinkets in the windows, no happy people laughing as they walk by, and no enticing smells of Italian cuisine. Just a somber-looking taverna at the end of a deserted, dark lane. An old wooden sign above the door, so weatheredby the elements that the name of the establishment isn’t even visible, is hardly a welcoming sight. The windows of the place are so grimy that even if the light inside was on, I still probably wouldn’t be able to see through them.