Sweet Prison: An Age Gap Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 10)

“No more cognac for Tiziano,” I whisper to the serving maid while she walks by me, carrying a tray of half-filled snifters.

The girl halts, her gaze darting to the group of men seated at the table in the middle of the parlor. “But, he just asked for another. A double. Neat.”

“I know. Bring him a glass filled with flat ginger ale instead. I doubt that he’d even notice the difference at this point. If he does and starts giving you trouble, though, just turn around and leave. I’ll handle him at that point.”

I follow the server’s movements as she makes a brief detour back to the liquor cart before approaching the capos. She then sets their drinks before each man and basically hightails it from the room. My eyes zero in on Capo Tiziano while he tastes his “cognac.” He mutters for a moment, likely confused over being handed the wrong drink, but has enough sense not to escalate the matter or draw too much attention to it.

Taking a sip of my wine, I lean my shoulder on the doorjamb and watch the men in the parlor over the rim of my glass. The Council members. Massimo grumbled all day today about having to host this informal gathering over drinks. I had to remind him several times of his own words: Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

With Judge Collins not being able to shed any useful info, we still have no idea who’s been plotting behind Massimo’s back. So, this was a necessity. A way to observe all the high-ranking men in a casual environment, maybe get a read on each while their guard is down. Is one of them a traitor? Also though, it’s a way to play a bit to their massive egos. Capos love to be shown respect by being invited into the don’s home. So, while Massimo doesn’t like it, he still has to deal with this dog and pony show. It comes with the job description.

Across the room, Primo appears to be in a heated discussion with Brio. Based on the serious looks on both of their faces, they must be discussing finances. Tiziano seems to have forgotten his drink, because he’s now wandered over to chat with Salvo, who’s been hovering near the corner bookshelf. As soon as my gaze sweeps over the underboss, I quickly look away. The last thing I want is to be snagged in eye contact with him. Over the past hour, I caught Salvo staring at me several times, which gave me the willies. He even complimented me when he arrived tonight, and that felt weird as fuck.

Knowing that the entire Council would be attending this evening, I picked a conservative outfit for myself—simple burgundy pants and a black blouse with a high neckline. It’s nothing that I haven’t worn before and is the typical attire that previously allowed me to easily blend into the background during various social functions. But tonight, Salvo isn’t the only one who’s been stealing looks at me. Even though I’ve kept to myself, picking a spot to stand just next to the entrance, everyone had noticed my presence in the room. Logic tells me that their attention must only stem from curiosity about my being here and nothing else, however, I still feel the need to adjust my neckline and pull down my sleeves to hide my hands every now and then. Unlike with Massimo, I’m still feeling self-conscious in front of La Famiglia, and it’s hard to get over that.

“Did you hear what happened to Collins?” Primo asks, his voice loud and a bit tense-sounding. “The poor bastard drowned last week in his own lake.”

Brio nods. “Such a tragedy. The man proved himself helpful on several occasions in his day. It won’t be easy to get someone else like him into our back pocket again.” He looks over at Massimo, who’s been talking with Adriano on the other side of the parlor. “Any judges on your ‘gambling debts forgiveness’ list, boss?”

“Two, actually,” Massimo smirks, his eyes meeting mine across the room.

The instant our gazes connect, an electric jolt zaps through my body. It happens every damn time that man looks at me. I might be covered from head to foot, but Massimo’s eyes have a way of singeing every shred of clothing off me. As I watch him, he runs his tongue over his lips, as if he can already taste me, and that current of energy zips straight to the apex of my thighs. The things that deviant tongue can do… I feel the blush creeping up my cheeks just from thinking about the possibilities.

“That’s new,” Brio throws in. “Care to share the names?”

“During our next meeting.” Setting his tumbler on the nearby side table, Massimo heads across the room, his eyes still glued to mine.

He stops a step in front of me and braces his palm on the doorframe, a mere inch above my shoulder. We’re not touching, but I feel the warmth from his body as if he’s a raging furnace. Or maybe that’s because the look in his eyes as they peer at me is downright scorching.

“How much longer do I need to endure this crap, angel?”All content © N/.ôvel/Dr/ama.Org.

“At least another hour,” I whisper.

“I have way better ideas of how I can spend that hour.”

“I’m sure you do.” I reach into the bowl of pistachios on the buffet stand to my right and grab a handful. I need something to occupy my hands or I might forget where we are and fidget with Massimo’s belt buckle. “Did you discuss the transportation issues with Adriano?” I try to deflect.

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“I had… other things on my mind.” He looks at the nut I’ve been trying to crack. “Give me that. Please.”

Raising my eyebrow, I drop the pistachios on his outstretched hand.

“Are you bored?”

“Not particularly.” I shrug, watching him make quick work out of shelling the pistachios. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“That you are stealing my snack? Everyone is watching, you know. Just take the whole bowl and go back to Adriano.”

“Mm-hmm… in a second. Give me your hand.”

My chest squeezes with emotion while he places the shelled yummies on my palm. When I look up, I find him watching me with a satisfied grin on his face. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to know what he’s thinking at this moment. Years ago, I mentioned in one of my letters that pistachios are my favorite snack, prattling on for an entire paragraph about how much I hate taking them out of their shells but keep refusing to buy the already-shelled ones. He responded to me with: we’re all a little nuts.

“Tell the girls not to bring Tiziano any more Courvoisier. In fact, cut him off from all alcoholic drinks. He’s becoming too chatty for my liking.”

“I did that already,” I whisper.

Massimo’s grin widens into a full-blown smile. “Of course you did.”

He turns around then and heads back to where Adriano is talking with the other investors—Patricio and Donatello. While he walks away, I absorb every single detail about the man who taught me to see the world beyond the obvious shades. His confident, determined stride. That posture of his, tall and commanding. He’s not wearing a jacket, so I can see the ripple of his muscles under the gray fabric of his dress shirt. I have intimate knowledge of each rise and valley on that magnificent back because, night after night, I’ve covered every inch of it in kisses.

When Massimo reaches for the drink he abandoned on the side table, my eyes focus on his hand—fingers strong and inked—gripping the crystal glass. Goose bumps spread along my arms when I recall how it feels to have that rough palm glide down my chest, caressing my skin, and then to have it dip lower, between my legs. He can do such wicked, wicked things with those fingers.

We’ve only been sleeping together for a couple of weeks, yet it feels like it’s been much longer. Massimo knows my body just like I know his. He knows what I like. What I crave. Every sensitive area, every spot on my skin. And I, I know how he likes to be touched, too. When he wants control, and when he’s willing to surrender it. Which is never, unless he’s with me. But my awareness of him extends past the physical. It’s a visceral, living thing, born of trust and secrets shared over a nearly ten-year span. I can anticipate his reactions, read his moods, feel his emotions. That’s how I know that his current relaxed stance as he talks with Adriano is just a pretense. An illusion that everyone is blinded by, except for me. Massimo’s prison frays might have come to an end but he’s still constantly on alert. A wolf who returned to his old pack, ascending to his rightful place as their leader, but remaining vigilant as if he’s still surrounded by foes.

As I continue to watch him, I’m suddenly overcome by an urge to wrap my arms protectively around him. To assure him that not everyone in his life is an enemy.

As if sensing my thoughts, he glances away from his drink, his eyes finding mine. There’s so much ferocity and determination in that dark gaze. I must be a fool for thinking that I could watch the back of a man like Massimo. Protect him by my own strength. Me, a silly little mouse who still prefers to stay on the sidelines so that people won’t stare at her face, the only not-covered part of my skin. But here’s a thing about mice… their teeth may be tiny, yet they are sharp. And I won’t hesitate, even for a second, to sink mine into anyone who dares to harm my man.

“Miss Zara.” Iris comes to stand next to me. “I’m so sorry to bother you. Tinia is crying in the bathroom and won’t come out.”

“What happened?”

“She was ironing the don’s shirt. His favorite one. The one he said he needed for tomorrow morning.”

I nod and head out of the parlor, making my way to the staff quarters.

“What’s the damage?” I ask as we cross the hall.

“It’s completely ruined. I tried to calm her down and reason with her, but Tinia wouldn’t stop bawling. She then took the shirt and locked herself in, jamming the door. Says she’s never coming out.” Iris glances over her shoulder. “She’s still terrified of Don Spada, ever since he threw her out of the kitchen when she tried to help him ready your breakfast,” she whispers.

Sighing, I come up to the staff bathroom door and gently knock. “Tinia? Could you please come out.”

“I can’t.” Her reply is a whimpering sob from the other side. “The don will be even more mad at me now, and we all know he doesn’t give second chances. I’m staying put.”

“It’s just a stupid shirt.” I shake my head. “Just… give me the damn thing. I’ll tell him it was my fault, that I burned it.”

“He won’t believe you, Miss. He—” There’s a sniff, and then, the door cracks open and Tinia’s puffy, red face comes into view. “The don handed that shirt to me himself, and he sounded very irritated when he said he needed it pressed.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Massimo.” I raise my hand. “The shirt, please.”

“Okay.” Reluctantly, she passes a wad of black fabric to me. It stinks like singed fibers, with slight melty plastic undertones.

I throw the ruined shirt over my shoulder and reach to wipe away the tears from the girl’s face. “Everything will be okay, you’ll see. Get your things and go home now. Take tomorrow off.”

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 to her.

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.