Page 86 of Sweet Prison
“Salvo!” I cry out, trying to yank my hand away. “Let me go.”
“I’ve admired you for years, Zara. You’d be a perfect wife for me.”
“You’re hurting me, Salvo.”
“What did he do to inspire such loyalty, huh? Why won’t you let go of that man? He’s nothing to you!”
“Because I love him!” I yell.
Salvo’s face blanches. He abruptly releases me and takes a step back, dismay and incredulity contorting his features. It lasts only a second, because, as quickly as before, his demeanor shifts. Remorse and what I can only imagine is shame, overtake his face while he runs his hands through his hair.
“I… I’m so sorry, Zara. I had no idea, and I let my emotions get the better of me. Have… have I hurt you?”
“A little,” I mumble, rubbing the tender flesh of my wrist.
“Please, forgive me. What I did… and what I said is inexcusable. You know me. I’m not usually like that. It’s just… I’ve loved you from afar for so long, that I simply lost my mind for a moment. Could we please pretend this never happened?”
My eyebrow rises, but I remain silent.
“I swear, I won’t ever voice my feelings for you again. Can we just keep all of this—my admission included—between ourselves? Right now, it’s a very delicate time for the Family, and Massimo is, of course, my friend. I want to continue helping him achieve all his goals, but if he hears about this, he won’t let me.”
He sounds sincere. And looks truly apologetic. However, a speck of doubt inside me warns that his outward penitence hides some opaque, deep-seated feelings.
“Fine.” The only reason I’m agreeing to Salvo’s request is because I’m certain Massimo isn’t gonna take this well if he hears about it. And he needs all the support he can get. Including Salvo’s. “But touch me again, and I’ll introduce you to my favorite pair of scissors. You get what I’m saying?”
To make sure he understands my meaning, I grab the scissors off the table and point the tip at him like a dagger.
Salvo blinks, surprise flashing in his eyes. He cocks his head and looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the very first time. “There’s more to you than you’ve ever let on, Zara Veronese.”
His tone is strange—a mix of admiration and displeasure tinting his words.
“That applies to most people, Salvo.”
“I guess it does.” He gives me a respectful nod and exits the library, leaving me with a subtle sense of foreboding that sets all the fine hairs on my neck on end.
The smell of rust invades my nostrils as I trudge between rows of old busted cars, flooding my mouth with fucking acid. It’s a stench I became accustomed to in prison. If I had a choice, I’d never go anywhere near another piece of rusty shit. Just my luck that Camorra prefers to hold meetings at their junkyard. The location is remote, and the fact that nothing else is aroundfor miles, makes this an ideal spot in case a meeting happens to go sideways. And with Camorra, that happens quite a lot.
A bunch of barbaric scavengers, all of them.
An animal analogy is actually quite appropriate. Not only for Camorra but for the rest of the underground syndicates, too.
The Cosa Nostra Families are like wolf packs. Well organized and faithful followers of a strict and defined hierarchy. Focused. Territorial. Wary of other packs unless there’s an opportunity to claim a limited resource. Where business is concerned, we operate with predetermined and trusted plans, often without deviation, while we chase whatever prey we’ve set our sights on. And once we’ve got its scent, we don’t let go.
In terms of structure, Bratva is very similar to us. But when it comes to business dealings, you never know what the fuck those crazy Russians are going to do. One day, they could be sitting down with you—drinking and laughing their asses off—and the next morning, they’d be pressing their gun to the back of your head. Very much like bears, whose moods and actions are often defined by how well they slept the previous night. Predicting the outcome of any given venture involving Bratva is nearly impossible. It could be a giant fucking party or an absolute bloodbath.
And then, there’s Camorra. An aptly named “clan” of hyenas. They might look like wild dogs, but they aren’t even the same species. While Cosa Nostra and Camorra share the same roots—both originated in Italy—the organizations are very different. Camorra is made up of a bunch of distinct gangs that joined to gain whatever advantage they can. As often as they merge, they split to pursue their own interests, and then join again. There are no rules, and certainly no discipline among their ranks. They make alliances based on whatever drives themat that moment. They take haphazard chances and rarely plan in advance. While with Russians, you might have at least a basic idea of where you stand, with Camorra, you don’t have the slightest clue.
Either way, you don’t turn your fucking back on any of them.
I walk around the corner, passing the wreck of a bus, and head toward the modular trailer that acts as an on-site office building. It’s been set up in a small clearing at the center of the junkyard lot, surrounded by heaps of crushed and decrepit metal.
Just steps from the entrance to the structure and nestled in its shade, two men parked on plastic folding chairs at an aluminum table covered with various dishes of food are stuffing their pieholes. Efisio, the current leader of the Camorra Clan, and his second-in-command, or so I assume. Nearby, eight armed men—each carrying a semiautomatic—are lurking in the harsh rays of the midafternoon sun.
I only brought along Peppe and three additional men, which puts us at two-to-one odds. Not bad.
“You briefed everyone on what to expect?” I ask in a low voice.
“Yes.” Peppe nods next to me. “And I have backup at the entrance to this joint.”