Page 84 of Sweet Prison
I’m halfway down the hallway when I hear my name being whispered among the quiet talk.
“If Miss Zara ever leaves, I’m getting out of this house. Screw the job.”
“I think everyone would,” Iris adds in the same hushed tone. “Let’s hope that never happens. Her leaving, I mean. Because, I’m certain the carnage will be a top story on the evening news, after the don goes ballistic and levels the place to the ground.”
“He won’t go ballistic,” I toss behind me. “And, I can assure you, I’m not going anywhere.”
Silence.
I used to both detest and crave the sound of it. The yelling, the psychotic mumblings. The loud snores that competed with the mind-rattling echoes of things being banged against the iron bars in the dead of night. That neverending clamor used to drive me insane to the point where I’d be ready to beg for just a few minutes of blissful quiet so I could get some fucking sleep. My silent prayer would come true each time I was thrown into solitary. No screams. No pounding. No… anything. Just the sound of my own breaths. As if I was buried alive. Stuck in that hole, it was even harder to fall asleep.
Can’t win for trying—a goddammed story of my life.
The barely audible creek breaks the stillness of the dark hallway, making me freeze. The fucking cunts repainted the damn thing but didn’t grease the hinges. With slow, gingerly movements, I push the door ajar just enough for me to slip into the bedroom.
Inside, only a small reading lamp is lit, set on the old desk Zahara has been using as a work table for her sewing. She smuggled the lamp from the downstairs library so she could keep working late into the evenings. A small smile pulls on my lips. I hope she resolved the issue with the hidden blazer buttons she was trying to finish this week. Reaching over to the side, I adjust the thermostat controls, turning up the heat in the room. Can’t risk my angel getting a cold.
Leaning against the door, I watch her, just as I do whenever she’s fallen asleep before I get here.
My Zahara.
The blanket is tangled at her feet, leaving her mouthwatering body in full view, allowing my eyes to freely wander over every inch of her delectable, soft skin. Perfect and magnificent, just as Zahara herself is. I can look at her for the next thousand years and still don’t get my fill. She’s a vision—more than I ever hoped for. More than I deserve. But she’s mine. She is… everything.
It enrages me that there are lowlives in her past who made her feel like she’s somehow flawed simply because certain areas of her skin are lighter than others. I recall the way she used to keep pulling on her sleeves and adjusting her hair to have it fall over her face during our first days together. At that time, I didn’t quite understand the reason that drove her to hide parts of herself, especially from me. After all, she had shared with me countless details of her life over the years. Her wishes. Her secrets. But not not this. None of her letters had ever mentioned her vitiligo. It was only after seeing her in the room filled with self-absorbed men that it hit me. Her need to conceal herself. Why she tried to remain invisible. She’d never tell me outright, but I’m sure it’s because of those pricks, and others like them.
What do they know, though, the small-minded, ignorant fools? Zahara is perfect. Just as she is.
It’s her heart, not her appearance that makes her unique. Her strength and kindness that make her captivating and irresistible. And yes, Zahara’s beauty sets her apart, calls to me, but only because it belongs toher.
My love.
That’s who Zahara Veronese is.
The plush carpet muffles my steps as I approach the bed, unbuttoning my shirt in the process. Tugging my pants off takes a bit of effort because my cock is hard as granite—a common condition after even a single look at my woman.Mine. With a capital M. Knowing that she belongs to me and me alone turns me on like nothing else. As is the fact that she wants me. Accepts me. Loves me.
Once my clothes are finally off, I climb into bed behind her and wrap my arm around Zahara’s middle, drawing her tightly against my chest and burying my nose in her hair. Jasmine. Freedom. Peace.
Zahara.
Closing my eyes, I inhale her scent as if it’s the only thing that I need to keep me going. To keep alive. To let me rest.
Really?The irritated voice shouts inside my head.Your cock is about to explode, and you’re just going to ignore it and catch some zees?
Yes. Go away.
Why?
Because there’s more than one way to experience bliss, asshole.
Chapter 21
“Miss Veronese,” Iris calls from the library threshold. “Mr. Canali is here.”
I pause sewing rhinestones on the hem of the dress and inwardly groan. He just had to drop by while Massimo was away handling the “Camorra issue.”
“Don Spada won’t be back until six. Tell him to stop by then.”
“Actually, I came to see you.” Salvo steps around Iris, coming into the room.