Page 72 of Sweet Prison
Adriano takes off his black-rimmed glasses and pins me with his discerning gaze. He might be the most unruffled and affable man in the room, yet his word carries a lot of weight. “Old money” talks, as they say. As a majority shareholder in his family-run logistics company, his personal net worth is around ten billion, and more than half of it is invested in Cosa Nostra businesses. Over the years, he’s been offered the rank of capo more than once. But he has always declined. If it wasn’t for that little fact, I would have bet that he was the one trying to off me so he could become Boston’s don. He has the means, for some reason, however, he’s never been interested in an official position within the Family hierarchy.
“It’s incredibly impressive, and a little mind-boggling, that you were able to steer this Family’s investment portfolio and look after business matters from behind bars all these years. And not only did you keep everything afloat, your actions resulted in significant financial gains,” Adriano says. “As such, I’m inclined to believe that you’ll do an even better job going forward, now that you can be openly involved. You have my vote, Spada.”
I accept his decision with a nod.
Donatello and Patricio are next, and neither of them would ever contradict Adriano. They both nod to indicate their support. I turn toward the other side of the table, leveling my eyes on the capos.
“You have my vote,” both Primo and Tiziano say in unison.
Brio remains silent, his gaze focused on his clasped hands on the table. His face is grim, still showing traces of now-dried blood. He really doesn’t want me leading the Family—it’s plainly obvious—but with the rest of the Council in agreement, he must feel like he has no other option. With his teeth clenched, Brio nods too.
“Salvo?” I turn toward my underboss, still struggling not to punch him in the head every time I look at him. Days later, and I can’t seem to shake my ire toward him after he had the gall to ask for Zahara’s hand. My friend has been unusually silent for the entire meeting and for reasons I can’t explain, it’s rubbing me the wrong way. It’s just not typical for him to stay out of a discussion. If there’s one thing I could always count on, it was Salvo making his opinion known.
“Of course you have my vote, Massimo. I’m glad to see you finally assume your rightful place.” He rises out of his seat and comes to stand before me. “My loyalty and my life are yours, Don Spada.”
With his eyes downcast, he bends forward and kisses my hand. It’s an old tradition. A show of adulation and fidelity to the seat of power, but also, recognition of the protection that will be received from that merciful authority. I was never a fan of it, because it reminds me of a cult. I don’t need them to worship me like a fucking saint. It’s the last thing I am. And with the changes I have planned, changes that many of them won’t like in the slightest, I have no doubts they won’t like me in the least. Italians though, and especially mafiosi, do love theirceremonies. So, I patiently sit through the whole ordeal until every man pays his respects.
“Let’s move over to the lounge for some drinks, and to discuss how we should approach the issue of disposing of Camorra,” I say.
“Now?” Primo asks. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Yes, now.” I let my gaze slice to them. “The vacation is over, gentlemen.”
***
It’s almost two in the morning when the last man leaves. Even with Peppe’s guys patrolling the grounds and watching the house, I still do a detailed sweep of the upper and lower levels before I climb the stairs to the second floor.
The door to Zahara’s room is shut. I press my hand to the wooden surface as if it will help bring me closer to her. It doesn’t. I know she’s there, right on the other side of this barrier, but the oak beneath my palm has become a literal representation of the obstacles that stand between us.
My whole being is vibrating with the urge to go inside, to simply be near her. The anxiety that has plagued me for the past five hours, ever since the moment she walked out of the meeting room, has twisted me up to the point I can barely breathe. I don’t know how to stifle this maniacalneedI have for Zahara. My self-control has been stretched razor-thin.
And it’s not because of sexual attraction. That would be much easier to resist. Zaharaisbeautiful, so beautiful that just setting my eyes on her makes my traitorous dick twitch. Yet it’s not only her beauty that makes me crave her. It’sher. Just… her.
Her spirit.
The fierce fire inside her.
Her boundless compassion and understanding.
She’s the only person who makes me feel like myself. With whom I can speak about things I would never voice in another’s presence. When she is near me, I feel like the man I once was. The one I want to be again. She’s the cure for my madness, abolishing it with her touch and her smile. Just as she did earlier tonight.
And the night before. And the one prior. For days I’ve been losing my temper with almost everyone who crossed my path. The renovation workers. The household staff. People in public places. With her touch though, a quiet word, a glance, my lunatic self retreats into the ether. Zahara grounds me, like nothing else can. Without her near me, I fear neither the world nor I may survive.
She is the missing piece to my soul. My salvation.
I want her. Want her in every possible sense. As a friend. And a lover. But most of all, as simply…mine.
Leaning my forehead on the door, I grit my teeth.
She’s not mine.
Can never be.
And that knowledge casts me into utter despair.
Closing my eyes, I bang my forehead on the wooden surface.
I need her. And I don’t know how to make that need go away.