Page 8 of Sweet Prison

“Kiril.” I lift my chin at the shirtless guy sitting at the head of the table. His torso is covered in tattoos, and he has a brow piercing over his left eye. “Losing again?”

The Bulgarian fixes his gaze on me, then mumbles something in his native language. The rest of his boys drop their cards and leave in a hurry. Taking a seat at the empty spot on his right, I interlock my fingers behind my head.

“Something wrong with the job, Spada?”

“Nope.” I shake my head, scanning the yard for potential snitches. “Your problem will be dealt with tomorrow, as we agreed.”

“I want it to be painful.”

“Your preference has already been noted. Don’t worry. Your uncle will be handled with utmost care.”

“Good. I owe you one.”

I smile. “You owe me much more than ‘one.’ The way you keep going, I’ll have all of your problematic family members taken care of by the time you get out.”

A throaty laugh rumbles from his chest. “How the fuck do you do it, Spada? You’ve been locked up here for what, five years? And you can get shit handled on the outside as if you’re there personally.”

“Almost eleven,” I say. “As forhow… well… loyalty, of those who know me. Money. A lot of it. And connections. A few favors. But most of all—fear. That’s definitely the best motivator.”

“Mm-hmm. Remind me not to get on your bad side. Ever.” He gives me a good-natured wink.

One of the COs in the guard tower signals the end of recreation time, and the inmates start trudging toward the entrance to Block D—my “Home Sweet Home” for another seven and a half years. Some are keeping to themselves, walking alone with their heads bent low, but most are gathered in larger groups. Keeping to their packs for protection. Trying not to draw the attention of the guards stationed throughout the yard.

This fucking place truly resembles a zoo sometimes.

“I need you to do something for me, Kiril.”

“Name it.”

“Some pissant has been harassing my stepsister at school.” I dip my head in greeting as the leader of one of the smaller gangs in my block passes. “I need you to send one of your nephews to have a chat with the little fucker. Do that, and I’ll consider the debt for your uncle paid in full.”

“Done. How intensive do you want that chat to be?”

“A few broken bones will suffice.”

“Is there a message you want my boys to relay?”

“Yes.” I meet Kiril’s gaze. “Next time he comes within twenty feet of Zahara Veronese, he’ll be eating his food through a straw. For the rest of his life.”

Kiril lifts his pierced brow. “I didn’t think you cared about anyone enough to trade favors for them. Especially, astepsister?”

“I don’t give a fuck about the girl. But I need her focused on something more important than school bullies. Make sure it gets done.” I push off the bench. “This punk better find his ass-kicking therapeutic.”

Chapter 4

One year later

(Zahara, age 15)

A soft knock on my door pulls me out of the deep, dark pit that is my math homework. “Come in.”

“Zara.” Iris, our maid, peeks in. “Am I interrupting? I wanted to get your take on the curtains that need to be changed in the parlor.”

Her tone is serious, but there is a slight smirk on her face. The one she wears whenever she has a letter for me.

I leap off the bed and dash across the room.

“Sure. Come in.” I basically drag her inside and shut the door. “You have it?”