Page 52 of Sweet Prison
I rest the back of my head in my hands and take a deep breath.
“Why did you shave your head?” she asks.
“Habit.” Since my last necessary grooming, my hair had grown almost half an inch, so I got rid of it this morning. “In lockup, grabbing someone’s hair was the easiest way to keep ahold of them to smash their face. Or to get in a few stab wounds, maybe even slit their throat.”
“You’re not in prison anymore, Massimo.”
“I know. Sometimes though, that detail kind of slips my mind. I didn’t even think about it when I picked up the razor this morning.” I glide my palm over the curve of my smooth head. “It’s been years. I wonder what I’d look like if I just let it grow.”
“Me too,” she whispers.
I meet her eyes.
“You’re out,” she continues in that soft voice that sounds like the sweetest music. “You need to stop looking at every person as if they are the enemy. And you need to let go of your paranoia that someone is going to kill me.”
I look away, focusing on the jasmine vines beyond the window. Last night, as I lay in front of Zahara’s bedroom door, waiting for sleep to claim me, I thought quite a bit about my unfounded concerns.
There’s no logical reason for anyone to want Zahara dead. Hurting her won’t gain anyone an advantage.
I know that. I also know that I should stay away from her. But I can’t. Can’t make myself do it, either. The mere idea of something bad happening to her is making me lose my shit.
Stop finding those pitiful excuses. She doesn’t need your protection. You’re simply trying to justify your actions, creating a rationale for hovering close to her. It needs to stop.
Sometimes, I wish I could get my hands on the voice inside my head and choke the fucker out. Because the asshole is right all too often.
Damn right, I am.
Fine.No more imagined death threats. No more stupid reasons for keeping her with me all the time.
I grab the carton of eggs off the counter and carry it to the fridge. “I have to go shopping. Only two of the suits my lawyer got for me fit.”
Zahara looks up from her plate. “Okay. I’ll do my unpacking since I haven’t had time, yet.”
“Good,” I say, aimlessly staring at the contents of the fridge, then I slam the door shut. “That’s good.”
Like a mindless moron, I head toward the door. Halfway there, my steps falter. I stop. There are nine heavily armed men on every shift.Is that enough to cover the house and the perimeter of the estate?
Yes, it is.
I continue, only to pause again at the threshold.Maybe I should take her with me? Just in case?There are a lot of fuckers from the reno company on site. Any one of them could pose a danger.
Nope. No more excuses.
I grab the jamb on both sides and squeeze until my hands ache.
Don’t.
Do NOT fucking say it.
I grit my teeth. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to remain here alone. Go get your purse, Zahara.”
I love shopping, but I usually do it alone or with my sister. Trying on clothes in front of other people is not my thing. On the few rare occasions when I joined Nera and her friends, I usually ended up standing off to the side, watching them parade about in all sorts of outfits and shoes. I have to admit, though, seeing Massimo as he tries on suit after suit is a sight to behold. Even though this one is still too tight in the shoulder area, just like the previous four.
“Did men shrink in the past two decades or something?” Massimo grunts as he struggles to button the jacket over his chest. The fabric is stretched so tight over his broad frame that it looks like it could burst at any second. The way the sleeves are straining around his bulging biceps is rather comical, too. Not to mention, they are way too short.
“I don’t think so.” I try to keep my face straight, barely containing my laughter. “I guess you’ll have to wait for the ones you ordered from the tailor to be done.”
“The motherfucker said he needs three days. I can’t go around naked.”