Page 59 of Sweet Prison
The rapid tick-tick-tick of a sewing machine sounds from inside Zahara’s room. Shouldn’t she be asleep at this hour? I lean my back on the wall beside her door and listen to the rhythmic noise. What’s she working on? An underlining? Or maybe an invisible zipper? I smile. She hates inserting those.
I wait until everything falls silent, until after I’m sure she’s finally gone to bed. Then, I stagger to the antique wardrobe in the alcove at the end of the hallway and take out the pillow I stashed within. Laying it in front of Zahara’s door, I sprawl on the floor with my forehead all but pressed to the wooden surface. In the dark, as always, my thoughts turn to her.
My Zahara.
Does she sleep naked? Or does she prefer one of those delicate satin nighties? I imagine her in the nude. Curled up on one side of the bed. I imagine climbing under the sheets beside her. My arm would slide around her waist, and I’d pull her into my body until her back is plastered to my chest. And I’d bury my nose in her hair, inhale her jasmine scent. I want it filling my nostrils until the end of time.
My cock gets hard just from picturing her spooned by my body. Safe in my arms. Mine.
Never going to happen.
I roll onto my other side, turning my back to the door. I only last about five seconds in that position before I twist to face the barrier to Zahara’s room again.
Chapter 17
Four days later
Incessant buzzing comes from somewhere on my left. I extend my hand and pat the nightstand surface until I find my vibrating phone. The screen mocks me with its brightness, showing that it’s 6:30 a.m. My movements could hardly be called coordinated as I shut off the alarm and climb out of bed. Grabbing a matching set of black underwear and a bra from the dresser, I head to the en suite bathroom to take a shower.
The reno company will be completing the final touches on the ground floor today and hopefully, everything will be ready for the big meeting tomorrow evening. The high-ranking members of the Family, capos, and investors, will all be voting for or against Massimo taking over the Boston Cosa Nostra. Typically, this vote is nothing more than a formality, but sometimes surprises can spring up. Like when my father was voted in instead of Batista Leone.
It seems the news of Nera’s resignation and awareness that Massimo is responsible for the Family’s prosperity has spread. Once people realized that he had been handling the business end of things for the past two decades, their reaction was immediate and came down with the force of a tsunami. For days, the house has been under siege by would-be visitors, though Peppe’s guys kept everyone at bay. The upper echelon of Boston’s Cosa Nostra society appears to be sufficiently pleased. Consideringhow much their bank accounts grew under Massimo’s direction, there’s no reason for them to want to change anything.
Unless he loses his temper during the meeting.
The Family loves money. But they value stability more. They would sacrifice future profits in an instant before they let a loose cannon take the reins of their lives. And based on Massimo’s recent behavior, I’m worried that may be the exact outcome.
Ever since his conversation with Salvo on Sunday night, Massimo has been doing his best to avoid me. He has spent most of his time holed up in the dining room, which has been remodeled into a huge meeting hall. At the same time, though—metaphorically speaking—he hasn’t let me out of his sight.
On Monday, when I went to visit my niece and sister, he wouldn’t let me drive myself over to my brother-in-law’s downtown apartment. Massimo insisted on taking me there himself and spent four hours in his Jag, parked in an underground garage waiting for me. Nera wouldn’t let him up. She’s still pissed at him for turning her life into a living hell these last several years. Massimo grumbled and eventually relented, but only after barking at Kai to keep me safe.
Then, yesterday, when I went over to the Leone Villa to direct the movers on how to pack what’s left of my things, Massimo insisted on going with me. He had three security guys follow us in a separate car, and all of them hovered over me the entire time I spoke with the packing crew.
He wouldn’t even let me go alone to the nearest store last night to buy some damn shampoo. Instead, he went to get it himself after ordering Peppe to watch the place like a freaking hawk. I was instructed not to leave his side until Massimo returned. All in the name of safety, apparently.
I turn toward the shelf built-in inside the shower stall and grab one of the fourteen shampoo bottles lined up there. Each is labeled as either “For Sensitive Skin” or “Contains Natural Ingredients Only.” He remembered. Remembered after hearing only once that products with harsh chemicals, alcohol, and fragrances easily irritate my skin. Now, the cupboards under the sink are crammed with bottles of body milk, shower gel, and hair essentials that all bear the same type of labels. All in all, there must be around thirty containers.
After I’m done washing my hair, I leave it to air-dry and head into the walk-in closet. Five minutes later, I’m working the clasp on the tennis bracelet Massimo got for me and exiting my room when I almost trip over a huge male body, sleeping right in front of my door.
“Massimo?”
He leaps to his feet and pushes me behind his back. I’m squished between his massive form and the wall while he snaps his head from side to side to assess the hallway. His left hand is pressed to my hip, but his right is gripping a weapon at the ready. He looks rather deranged.
“Um… There’s no one there,” I mumble into his back. He’s still wearing the gray dress shirt and black pants from the previous evening. “You can put away the gun.”
“Sorry,” he says in a gruff voice and bends down to pick up the pillow off the floor. “I’m usually more alert when I wake up.”
“Why were you sleeping at my door?”
His face darkens. For a few moments, he just sears me with those hellish eyes, then turns and heads down the hall. Well, if he thinks this conversation is finished, he’s wrong! He’s been acting weird for days, and we need to get to the bottom of whatever it is before he goes nuclear.
I trail after him along the corridor and up the stairs to the upper floor. This part of the house hasn’t yet been touched by the renovation company, and it’s in a dreadful state. The ravages of time are more apparent here. Cracked door frames and drywall where the house has settled. Faded, peeling wallpaper in some rooms. Carpet that has seen much better days. I don’t understand why he hasn’t moved into one of the rooms on the second floor, where I am. It’s in much better condition.
Following Massimo inside the room he disappeared into, the first thing I notice is the perfectly made bed. The bedding upon it is pristine, with not a crease or a dent in sight. Even the throw pillows are lined up as they were on my own bed when we first arrived here. That was five nights ago, just after the cleaning company left.
“Where have you been sleeping this past week?” I ask. “Because this bed doesn’t look like it’s been slept in.”
Massimo opens an upright dresser in the corner and starts rummaging through it without a word.