Page 70 of Sweet Prison
“I’m sorry for my tone, Zara.”
Like a flash, Massimo strikes again—grabbing Brio by the hair and slamming him face-first against the table. He follows that by pressing his elbow to the side of the capo’s head, pinning down the now bleeding man. Brio’s blood, streaming from his nose, mixes with water from an overturned glass, and the blended liquid soaks the documents spread across the wooden surface and flows toward Brio’s mouth and eye.
“She’s not ‘Zara’ to you. Try again.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Veronese.”
“That’s much better.” Massimo finally releases the battered capo and looks up at me. “What do you need, Zahara?”
Eight pairs of eyes stare back at me. The room feels supercharged, even though no one is shouting anymore.
“I…” I drop my gaze, focusing on the phone I’m holding. “Your phone rang. It was… it was your lawyer, and it sounded urgent.” I swallow, then look up, right into Massimo’s eyes. “He might be losing control of some things that need to be handled with finesse. So, I thought you should be made aware.”
For a few heartbeats, as his gaze stays locked on mine, his face remains the same angry mask he’d directed at Brio. But then, I notice his facial muscles relax. Slowly, he lowers onto theleather chair and interlocks his fingers atop the table. His entire posture changes, becoming completely at ease.
“Thank you,” he says, his tone calm. “I’ll make sure to give him a call as soon as I’m done here.”
“Okay. Well… I guess, that’s all. I’ll be going now.”
I turn, reaching for the door handle, just as Massimo growls behind me, “Get your ass in that empty chair at the end.”
My whole body tenses. He never uses that tone with me.Shit.I shouldn’t have interrupted their meeting.
“Now, Brio,” Massimo continues. “Zahara, please have a seat beside me.”
A ball lodges in my throat. And I seem to have lost control of my limbs because I can’t move. My gaze remains fixed on the door in front of me.He can’t be serious.This isn’t done. Only capos and appointed members can attend Council meetings.
The dragging of a chair across floorboards breaks the silence. The silence that hangs over the room like a dense shroud. The tension is nearly palpable.
“This is outrageous.” Someone’s irate mumble reaches me. “The rules—”
“Shut your trap, Tiziano. When you get to be the head of the Family, then you can enforce the rules. But right now, I’ll choose which rules I’ll honor, and which I won’t.”
Paralyzed by indecision, I remain rooted in place, staring at a dried paint bubble on the door in front of me.
“Zahara, please.” A much softer voice reaches me.
I slowly turn and face the grim expressions in the room. Brio has taken a seat to Primo’s left and is glaring at me most vehemently. I bite the inside of my cheek as my eyes glide down the long table, briefly connecting with the judgmental gaze of every seated man until they land on Massimo. He is standing,having pulled out the chair on his left-hand side that was vacated by Brio.
My hands tremble as I take the first step forward, but I refuse to look at the floor as I would have in the past, even with all these powerful men staring at me. All they’ve ever done is look down on me. Yet, despite the acute pressure of their eyes, the so-familiar urge to hide doesn’t hit me.
Another step. And then another. I keep my chin up, gaze connected with Massimo’s as I cross the room. I can’t believe he invited me to join the meeting. That’s unprecedented. He’s basically proclaimed me an equal to every man here. Equal to Tiziano, who, a few years ago, asked me to fetch him another drink, taking me for one of the serving staff in my own house. And Primo, whom I overheard telling his wife that, if my father offered their son my hand in marriage, they’d need to find a way to avoid it, hoping that Dad would relent and allow Nera to marry “the darling Ruggero” instead. And to Brio, who once outright asked my dad if I had a speech impediment because I preferred to stay quiet at social gatherings instead of yapping nonstop like other girls my age. They all must be fuming on the inside, and I couldn’t be more delighted by that fact.
As I take my seat, Massimo helps slide my chair in and then resumes his place with a slight incline of his head in my direction.
“Now, where were we?” he asks casually, cutting his eyes to Brio.
“You’re selling our strip clubs to Ajello,” Brio says through his teeth.
“Yes. And in exchange, he is giving us an in with his construction project in Manhattan. We’re investing in a premium residential complex fifty-fifty, and splitting the profits in the same way.”
Absolute silence descends over the room again while the men stare at Massimo with expressions vacillating between shock and wonder. Salvatore Ajello is known for killing any Cosa Nostra member from outside of his own Family who dares to set foot in his territory. He usually mails the body parts back to their respective don in a bag. Or several. The fact that he agreed to a joint project in New York with another crime family, borders on science fiction or fantasy.
“What’s the expected profit?” Adriano asks, seemingly back to his perfectly composed self.
“After the construction is complete and the condos hit the market, he projects sixty-seven point five million in earnings for each side, after tax. Clean, legitimate income we can easily reinvest as we see fit.”
“That sounds too good to be true,” Brio throws in. “Who will vouch that Ajello will keep his end of the deal?”