Page 97 of Sweet Prison
“Brio has taken the news of his retirement much better than expected,” Salvo says as he comes to stand on my left. “I fully expected him to throw a fit.”
“He tried. I convinced him of the benefits of accepting the situation for what it is.”
“In exchange for monetary compensation, perhaps?”
“In exchange for keeping his limbs attached to his body.” I take a sip of my wine. “Peppe tracked the last of Efisio’s men who hadn’t fled the city by the deadline. Neither of the two idiots could attest to seeing their leader meeting with anyone from Cosa Nostra in the past year. Basically, the same story as with all the others he questioned. It’s another dead end.”
“Are you sure it’s not the Albanians who want you out of the picture? I had one of my guys do some digging. It seems Dushku’s business hasn’t been doing well. After his dealings with Bratva and then Ajello fell apart, their finances took a serious hit. And now, with us moving on to working with Popov, there are only a few small players left for the Albanians to hang on to as clients.”
“Endri is a clever snake. He’ll find a way to slither out of this situation.”
“Maybe.” Salvo shrugs. “You know, I’m somewhat sad we’re bowing out of the strip clubs. Many men in this room quiteenjoyed blowing off steam with the girls. When’s the official handover happening?”
“In a month. I’m meeting with Ajello’s underboss tomorrow evening to sign the paperwork. We’ll probably—”
The room suddenly falls completely silent. I look around, tracking the surprised gazes of over two hundred guests. They all seem to be staring in the same direction. When my eyes finally land on the source of the commotion, I almost swallow my tongue.
“Fuck me,” Salvo mutters beside me.
Under the bright vestibule lights, a vision in red steps into the celebration hall. The upper part of her dress hugs her sublime body, while the long silk skirt cascades over her hips like a waterfall of blood. With each step she takes, the two thigh-high slits shift, revealing her shapely legs. My eyes trail from her shimmering gold heels, up over the flashes of smooth skin, across the tight bodice and the deep V-neckline that plunges to showcase her luscious breasts, to stop at her angelic face. As usual, she doesn’t have a stitch of makeup on. But instead of wearing her hair down as she typically does, it’s gathered at the crown of her head in a tight, elegant bun.
My lungs contract, and I’m left gasping for air as I watch Zahara glide among the guests. They part like a wave to let her pass. I can’t move a muscle. I can’t even breathe, absolutely floored by the magnificent sight of her. She walks with sure steps, head held high as if utterly unconcerned by everybody’s stares. Their blatant gawking leaves no question—they are seeing her for the first time. In all her regal glory. Through the crowd, she strides like a princess. No… like a fucking queen.
My queen.
Our gazes collide at that moment, and it feels like a wrecking ball just whacked me square in the chest. In a split second, I realize how monumentally wrong I’ve been to doubt this woman’s inner strength. The girl who spent years trying to be invisible no longer exists.
I’m completely absorbed by the heavenly vision before me, so different from the one I already know and love, when a guest—amaleguest—blocks her path, shuttering my view.
Blind rage erupts within me as I rush across the room, straight for the man who dared to step between me and my angel. I grab the idiot by the back of his suit jacket and fling him to the side, where he crashes into one of the tables, tipping it over.
“You never told me you like red, Zahara,” I say, stepping right up to her.
She tilts her head, staring at me from beneath her long lashes. “Actually, it’s my favorite color.”
My hand lifts as if of its own accord, and I brush her chin with my knuckles. Then, my fingers trail down her slender neck, skimming across her nape where two long ribbons extending from the front of her dress are tied in a bow, their ends draping over her bare back.
“One of those things that needed to be sewn inside out?” I ask, trailing my palm down the length of the silk.
“Yes.” Her eyes sparkle like two large whiskey-colored diamonds. “Using the same piece of fabric the bodice was done with.”
Around us, people are pretending to be enjoying their drinks, but their baffled gazes don’t deviate from us even for a second. They are obviously eavesdropping but can’t make heads or tails of our exchange.
“Want to get a drink, angel?”
“I’d love to.”
I place my hand on the small of Zahara’s back, ushering her across the room to a bar at the opposite corner. Every eye in the room follows us as we make our way. My palm itches to slide lower, to her decadent behind.
Sure. Let’s just broadcast to everyone here that you’re screwing your stepsister so they can come after her like the damn vultures they are.
“It’s called making love, asshole,” I mumble under my breath. “And I’m pretty sure she’ll kick their butts if they try.”
My voice is low, but judging by the handful of perplexed stares, clearly still loud enough.
“Another quarrel with your alter ego?” Zahara whispers, amusement dancing in her tone.
“Maybe.”