Page 48 of Sweet Prison
Standing on a sidewalk before this rather sketchy joint, I tuck myself closer to Massimo. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“I’m not certain. Let’s check it out.” A mischievous grin pulls at the corner of his lips. “Can you whistle?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Whistle?”
“Yes.”
“I guess. Want me to do it now?”
“Please. A long one, followed by two short bursts.”
I snort. Then, feeling like a complete idiot, I look at the door and whistle. One long, and after, two short, just like he said.
Nothing happens. Not that I expected anything different. “Now what? Should I try sayingabracadabra?”
That grin lights up Massimo’s whole face, making him look much younger than he actually is. It happens every time he smiles. “Give it a few moments. Everyone usually uses the back entrance.”
“Give wha—”
A single low whistle comes from somewhere up above; a second-story window, I imagine. I glance at the upper level but see no one. After another few seconds, an audibleclickfrom the door makes me jump.
Massimo grabs the somewhat rusty knob and pushes the door open. The hinges protest with a strange, screeching sound.
“Watch your step,” he says and walks inside.
As soon as we enter, the door behind us shuts, sealing us in near-total darkness. Only faint light filters in through the dirty windows. The air is so stale that I can almost taste it on my tongue. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to being able to make out the interior. My heart pounds as I contemplate what we’ve gotten ourselves into. There is a bar to our left and a bunch of tables pushed against the wall on the opposite side of the room. The place looks like no one has been here in years.
Dust swirls in the air as Massimo moves to stand right in front of me. My nose itches from the particles floating around us and the faint smell of mold and… cigarette smoke.
“Scared?” Massimo asks, taking my hand in his.
“No. Should I be?”
I can’t really see his face, just a general outline of his body towering over me, but I hear his quiet chuckle. He takes a step back, pulling me with him. More dust rises as he urges me across the room, toward another door that comes into view in the far corner. I sneeze.
“Sorry about that.” His thumb brushes my pulse point, setting off a race of goose bumps up my arm. “Two more steps.”
The heel of my shoe catches on something, and I stumble forward. Immediately, two thick arms wrap protectively around me.
Warmth. It surges within my body like a current. Massimo’s chest rises and falls under my cheek while I listen to the steady beating of his heart. In the span of a thought, though, the rhythm changes, until it sounds like a runaway train. I close my eyes and simply take it in, all the while marveling at the sensuous heat coming from his body. And this sensation of being held in his embrace, even as I know it’s only accidental. A stolen moment. Itlasts barely a few seconds, and then he steps away. Leaving me feeling cold without his arms around me.
“Everything okay?” His voice sounds clipped in the darkness.
“Yeah.”
I see him nod. He walks up to the door, reaching for the handle in front of him. Another click. Then, a sliver of light bursts through the gap, along with the noise of raucous conversations and ecstatic laughter.
“I know you believe that Cosa Nostra is all about lavish parties and intrigue,” Massimo says, sliding the door open and letting out more sounds and smells with every inch. “But it’s so much more, angel.”
My own silly heart skips a beat. Momentarily, I allow myself to believe that, what must have been a slip of the tongue, actually has a special meaning. That the endearment he casually threw out was just for me. That, maybe, that’s how he sees me.
“Come on.” Massimo pulls the door back completely and steps aside, revealing a view of total chaos. And life.
Dozens of people—mostly men—are gathered at small round tables crowded around the huge room. They all seem to be speaking at once. The noise is nearly deafening. Two waitresses wearing little white aprons over their short black skirts weave in and out among the seated, setting drinks down and slapping an occasional wandering hand away. At the center of the room, a group of six is playing cards, while several people stand around them. Laughter rings out from the lot as one of the men points to a laid-down hand. Next to the players, a couple of gray-haired old-timers engage in a verbal brawl. Their voices rise and rise as if trying to overcome the levels from the other tables. And inthe middle of this all, a dog lies sleeping at the old guys’ feet, completely unperturbed by the noise.
The left side of the room has two pool tables, and there’s a crowd of about twenty huddled around them. The women seem more interested in flirting with the men than watching or playing a game. A classic jukebox occupies a nearby corner, and a middle-aged couple is dancing right beside it. Off to the side is a small bar top with four stools, yet there’s at least double that number of guys jammed in the space, doing shots and yammering excitedly at the woman making the drinks. All in all, it’s a typical Saturday evening at a neighborhood pub, but with one major difference: Every single man, including the old guys with the dog, is wearing a gun holster.
One of the men near the table playing cards looks up and his gaze zeros in on us standing at the threshold. It’s Peppe. I didn’t recognize him without his full suit and tie. His eyes flare in surprise when they register the huge presence standing at my back. Slowly, he straightens and lets out a short, shrill whistle. The conversations and laughter immediately die down, and someone kills the music. Dozens of eyes snap to Peppe, then follow his gaze back to us.