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

One year later

(Zahara, age 16)

Soft notes of a classical melody carry across the garden, blending with the chatter and laughter of dozens of guests mingling around the tables. The cherry tree that overhangs the small platform where the string quartet is playing is in full bloom, but there isn’t even a hint of its sweet scent in the air. Instead, perfume and cigar smoke suffuse the area, drowning everything else out and making my nostrils itch and burn. Like he always does, Dad insisted that I attend his annual spring cocktail party. As if there won’t be another occasion next month.

And the next.

It’s a necessary evil, I guess. A great number of business deals are conducted at these parties. Relaxing atmosphere, fancy food, expensive wine… All of that makes people more susceptible, much easier to sway toward a deal they might not be so inclined to accept in a more rigid business setting.

Tugging the sleeve of my dress down, I pull it over my wrist and continue watching elegantly dressed women chat and flirt with confident, influential men. Red dresses. Gold. Raspberry-pink. Short. Long, with thigh-high slits. All were chosen to attract attention.

I’m so fucking envious.

So many times, I’ve dreamed of wearing a gown like I see here. There’s a stack of sketches of beautiful dresses with open backs and low necklines hidden under my bed. I occasionally pull them out and imagine the fabrics that would best suit each design. Bittersweet fantasies, because I’d never make these dresses for myself. I don’t have the guts to wear them.

People staring at me and whispering words they don’t think I can hear always gets to me. It’s suffocating. I can’t handle it, so I try to stay far away from any kind of attention. Remain invisible to everyone around. Even to the waiter with a tray of drinks who passes by without offering me a beverage. Luckily, that invisibility has a few benefits.

With my eyes downcast, I step away from my hidey-hole near the wall and get lost amid the crowd in the garden.

“Is it true that Donatello is getting remarried?” a woman asks her date as I walk by.

It’s true. It’s also old news. I drift away from the couple and meander toward the right edge of the lawn where I spied Brio—one of my father’s capos—and his wife. Brio runs Cosa Nostra’s casinos, and from what I gathered by eavesdropping on the meeting he had with my father last week, there’ve been some problems in that business. Lingering at the hors d’oeuvres table just behind them, I pretend to be captivated by the selection and load up a small plate while listening in to their whispered conversation.

“The don won’t budge,” Brio says in a low voice. “We can make a shitload of money, but Nuncio didn’t want to even hear about it. Who the fuck cares if the players want to take a few sniffs here and there? It will just make them more amenable to spend their cash.”

I raise an eyebrow. Brio seems like he’s still hell-bent on getting cocaine into our casinos. Interesting. I wait to see if he’ll say more, but another man approaches, and the conversation shifts to the latest football game. Shame. Abandoning my plate and grabbing a glass of mineral water, I head to the other side of the garden.

In addition to the high-ranking Family members, there are also a fair number of people who are not Cosa Nostra present here. A few government officials, most of whom are on the Mafia’s payroll. A handful of B-list celebrities. Lawyers, lots of those. As well as CEOs and major shareholders of several big-ass corporations. All of them, in some way, are connected to Cosa Nostra, be it through business dealings or bribes.

I spot a man in a black tuxedo munching on a shrimp cocktail and recognize him as a cardiac surgeon who racked up a huge debt at the blackjack tables last year. The Council—comprised of my father’s capos and key investors, and led by the don—decided to forgive what he owed in exchange for his services. Now, he’s at Cosa Nostra’s beck and call. Indefinitely.

When my father implemented this policy of “recruiting” prominent individuals by wiping out their gambling debts, there was an outcry of epic proportions within the Family. Forgiving thousands of dollars of debt? Sacrilegious! But when Brio’s cousin was shot in the shoulder during a stupid drunken quarrel, guess who saved the day? The cardiac surgeon. He patched the idiot up and pumped him full of meds through an IV in the back room of the bar. No paperwork. No questions asked. No problems.

The naysayers shut their mouths quite quickly once they realized how convenient it was to have a plethora of useful people in their back pockets. The return on investment of that policy has been good, with the benefits far outweighing the lost revenue from the unpaid debts. The don was then thought of as a vanguard of some kind. No one suspected that the mastermind behind it, and every other profitable business decision in over a decade, is locked up in a maximum security prison and has been there the entire time.

I continue to meander among the guests, catching snippets of their hushed conversations, committing everything that may be relevant to memory. In his last letter, Massimo asked me to keep an eye on my father’s second-in-command—Batista Leone. The underboss hasn’t arrived yet, which is strange. Usually, the ass-kissing bastard is glued to Dad’s hip at these kinds of events.

As I gaze around the garden, my eyes catch on a man in a gunmetal-gray suit standing off to the side, talking with a lady wearing a gold cocktail dress. He’s in his early thirties, with dark-brown hair that curls a little at his nape. Salvo Canali. His family is one of the oldest and most respected in Boston Cosa Nostra, so it wasn’t a surprise when he was promoted to capo a few years back. On Massimo’s order, I’m sure. From what I’ve gathered, Salvo and Massimo have been best friends since their school days.

It’s actually rather hard to find any info about my stepbrother. People rarely mention him, almost like he’s been forgotten completely. As if he never even existed. But if they only knew…

Another woman approaches the pair and kisses Salvo’s cheek. He’s always been popular with the ladies and has a different woman on his arm at every party. That makes me wonder why he’s still unmarried. The Cosa Nostra men usually marry young, and Salvo is already thirty-three. Same age as Massimo.

How old will Massimo be when he’s released from prison? Around forty, if I’ve calculated correctly. He’ll probably marry as soon as he takes over the Family. My stomach drops and pressure squeezes my chest the instant that realization hits me.

“Zara, my dear.” My father’s voice rings out behind me, making me jump.

I swallow and turn around. “Um… hi, Dad.”

“I’m glad you saw reason and decided to come down.” He pats my back, as if he’s praising an obedient dog. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“Happy that you’re enjoying yourself, baby. It’s imperative to be seen. To get to know people who are important to La Famiglia. Soon, your sister will be married to one of these nice men. And then, it will be your turn.”

I can’t suppress a shudder. He’s already planning on marrying us off. Sadly, it’s not uncommon. Most marriages within Cosa Nostra are arranged to strengthen alliances or to ensure a favorable business merger. But I’m barely sixteen, and Nera only just turned eighteen, for God’s sake.

“Don’t worry.” Dad pats my shoulder again, obviously confusing my disgust with anxiety. “I’ll make sure we find a sweet, gentle partner for you when the time comes. Maybe Ruggero. The two of you would be a good match.”

My gaze follows Dad’s to a group of men gathered by the stage where the musicians are playing. Ruggero, the youngest son of Capo Primo, is hunched over, wiping his nose with one of those handkerchiefs that no one has used in the past century. His maroon suit hangs on his short, willowy frame. With his thick-framed brown glasses and unruly hair that he’s tried to wrangle with too much gel, Ruggero looks like an escapee from a retirement home crashing someone’s Christmas party. And to think, the dude isn’t even twenty.

“I disagree,” I mumble.

“Why? He’ll likely take over Primo’s position at some point. Ruggero has been working very hard to learn all the ins and outs of properly laundering money from his dad. And he has a very mild temperament. You’ll have nothing to fret about being with him, Zara.”

I’ve never felt the need for violence, but now, as I take in the gently condescending look on my father’s face, the urge to punch him overwhelms me. How is it possible that he still doesn’t understand me? His own daughter. Just because I prefer to remain on the sidelines doesn’t mean I’m a weakling or that I’m terrified of people. He would never comprehend the strength and determination it takes to make myself go to school every morning, to endure the nonstop taunting and tasteless jokes, and to ignore the spiteful bullies.

At least that scumbag Kenneth Harris has graduated, so now I don’t have to see his ugly mug every day. I’m thankful he stayed away from me after the incident when he ripped off my sleeve. Maybe the car accident he was in a couple of days later shook a bit of human decency into him. He spent nearly a month in the hospital and when he returned to school, he was sporting a cast on both arms.

“I think you should get back to your guests,” I prod.

“You’re right.” Dad smiles. “Try to enjoy yourself. But no alcohol. We can’t have the don’s daughter seen behaving improperly.” He turns to leave, then halts and reaches into his jacket pocket. “I almost forgot. I saw this today and thought you’d like it. I got a matching one for your sister, too.”

A pesky tingling sensation settles in my nose as I stare at the delicate gold chain bracelet in my father’s palm. A small vintage-style charm with a ruby at its center hangs off one of the links.

“It’s from the latest collection. I thought you’d like the retro design.”

“It’s lovely,” I choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Smiling, he hands me the bracelet and kisses my temple. “Now, go mingle and show them how a well-bred lady behaves.”

The crowd closes in around my father as he walks off across the lawn. People flock to him, hoping for a few words with the don, or just to be seen at his side. His ever-present charisma and the power of his position draw them in like a beacon. He always has a joke or two up his sleeve. A perfect compliment for a lady, an approving nod for a man, a radiant smile for anyone seeking his attention.

There are no awkward silences with Nuncio Veronese because he always has just the right words to keep the conversation flowing. He remembers the birthday and anniversary dates for every Cosa Nostra member and has never once forgotten to send a tasteful card or bouquet to show that he cares. How can anyone ever doubt his thoughtful nature? He really is the perfect man for the role he’s been playing for over ten years, a role he obviously enjoys wholeheartedly.

My hand closes around the bracelet with such force the charm will likely leave an indent on my skin. Too bad that by maintaining the perfect persona of a benevolent leader, somewhere along the way, the great Nuncio Veronese forgot his other role. Being a loving father to his daughters, not simply acting like one for the sake of his image. Maybe then he would remember that I can’t wear most of the jewelry I’ve always coveted. And certainly none that he buys for me.

Once upon a time, I asked my sister if our dad loves us, and her reply still rings in my ears today. Of course he loves us, she said. But I think he loves the Family more. Nera has always been more adaptable than me, and she seems to have accepted this situation for what it is. Well, I can’t. There are no incremental levels in love. No middle ground. You either love someone and are willing to do anything for them. Or you don’t love them.

Therefore, I don’t feel even an ounce of regret or shame as I follow after my father, snagging bits of the guests’ exchanges along the way. Catching a whisper here, a proclamation made in a low voice there. Collecting the info I’ll relay in my letter to Massimo tomorrow morning.

In the past, I dreaded attending these kinds of events and did everything I could to avoid them. Not anymore. I’d never admit it to anyone, but these days, I actually enjoy my father’s shindigs. To most people here, I’m invisible, and they have no idea the impact I have on their lives. Granted, it’s indirect and hardly life-altering. But still, it makes me feel as if I’m finally a part of this world. My world. Long have I wanted to be accepted into it, but I never had the guts to try to make it happen.

Until Massimo showed me the way.

I keep that feeling of fulfillment and purpose close to my heart, letting it wash over me as I weave between the guests, committing to memory every single detail he might find useful.

Batista Leone has arrived, and he’s standing next to Dad by the string quartet, speaking in hushed tones in the shadow of a cherry blossom tree. Based on the hardened set of my father’s jaw and his furrowed forehead, whatever they are discussing must be serious. I circle to the far side of the stage and stop just behind the cello player. The musical accompaniment is sophisticated and elegant but is a tad too loud, and I have to concentrate to hear what my father and the underboss are saying.

“Brio has a valid point,” Leone says as he takes a long sip of his whiskey, making an awful sound as if he’s slurping soup. I cringe, disgusted with the man’s lack of decorum. “Offering coke at the casinos would bring in dozens of new, well-paying customers each month. Why not integrate these two very profitable businesses under the same umbrella?”

“Because members of the Family are listed as part of the ownership group, Batista. If the DEA got wind of this, we’d all go down.”

“We could offer the product only to select clients, those who have proven to be reliable. Do it under the table, so to speak.” Leone shifts toward my father, and I’m forced to lean closer so I don’t miss the rest of his comment. “Just a few transactions here and there.”

“And what if someone talks? Word spreads quickly, you know that.”

“We can offer cut-rate prices, conditional on them keeping their mouths shut. With that, there’s basically, no risk. Think about it, Nuncio.”

My father looks down at his drink, contemplating the idea, and after a few tense seconds, he nods so slightly it’s barely noticeable.

I shake my head. He can’t actually be considering it, right?

Two other men join my father and Leone, and each lights up a foul-smelling cigar amid raucous laughter. I take a step back. Keeping to the edge of the lawn, I head toward the house, away from the smoke and the scheming Cosa Nostra cronies.

Once in my room, I take a quick shower, then pull the box of Massimo’s letters from under my bed. My treasure. There are nearly fifty simple white envelopes inside, so I had to change the hiding place from my closet to an old, rustic wooden chest—shoved as far back underneath the bed frame as I could manage—to keep them safe. All are carefully sorted in the order I received them.

In my latest letter to Massimo, I asked him for dating advice. Not that I’m going out with anyone, or even planning to. I just wanted to see what he’d say. So I lied, mentioning that a boy at school had been hitting on me. Massimo probably found my question stupid. A teenage girl asking a man over thirty, one who spent close to half his life in prison , for dating tips. I’m not sure what possessed me to ask him something so foolish. Or maybe I am, but admitting the truth would only make me feel even more like a fool.

Because the truth is… I wanted to make him jealous.

When Massimo finally started replying to my letters, his words spiked my curiosity. He’s this strange, intriguing entity, so close but at the same time so removed, and I wanted to know more about him. And as I got more glimpses of him, of his magnificently cunning mind, curiosity transformed into admiration. At some point, though, that admiration blossomed into something else.

The way my heart skips a beat every time I receive one of his letters is not just excitement for a new task. When I sneak around, gathering information, it’s not because I’m concerned about the overall success of the Family. Not anymore. I’m doing it for him. Because this new emotion I’m feeling is something deeper. Forbidden. And I try not to dwell on it.

I unfold Massimo’s latest letter and read the last paragraph again. It contains his response to my question about dating.

Guys are pigs, Zahara. Make sure you know his intentions before you start anything serious. Be careful, kiddo.

M.

I stare at the last word.

Kiddo.

He doesn’t care if I’m dating someone. And why would he?

It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, the same dry burn I almost choked on when I read it the first time.

Crumpling the paper into a ball, I carry it into the bathroom and flush it down the toilet.

Massimo

“The return on our Cambridge investments shows a decline.” I lower the printout of the quarterly cash flow report. “Why?”

My stepfather shrugs in a seemingly casual manner, but he keeps playing with his pen. I know he hates coming to the prison to see me for our weekly “meetings,” although he’s never admitted it. “Rental rates have become too competitive, even with long-term leases. We had to decrease ours by ten percent.”

“I don’t remember approving that, Nuncio.”

“I didn’t want to bother you with something so insignificant. It’s just a few dozen condos.”

I lean forward. “You report every single thing to me, no matter how minuscule, before making any kind of decision.”

Nuncio winces, but keeps his composure. “The vacancy rate throughout the Greater Boston region is high, and I didn’t want to risk losing existing tenants, Massimo. The market has been on a downward spiral since last year.”

“Then find a way to make our properties more lucrative! Hire some bimbo and run ads of her doing Pilates in one of our condos or some other shit. I want the rent rates up to last year’s level, and I don’t give a shit if you need to put up a billboard in the middle of Back Bay to get it done.”

Nuncio blinks, then quickly jots a note on his notepad. “Sure.”

“What about our catering operations?” I ask.

I’ve invested a lot of money and leveraged considerable connections to get the “eyes- and ears-off” treatment in this fucking place. The guards are paid to kill the camera in the room when I have a visitor, but I still don’t take chances. I always use code when discussing illegal operations with my stepfather. Our illicit drug business is referred to as “catering,” and each product has its own stealthy label. I even had Nuncio set up a legitimate catering company to act as a front business, eliminating any possible suspicions.

“Steady profit margins there,” he says. “The demand for chicken has increased slightly in the last couple of weeks. We may need to find another farm because the current supplier is at maximum capacity.”

“Good. It may be prudent to research suppliers in the South. I’ll have a word with a friend, and he’ll arrange for someone to contact you.”

Nuncio stares at me, clearly confused. For fuck’s sake! How is it that his adolescent daughter got a handle on my coded language from the start, despite my very limited directions through my letters, and this fool can’t find his way with a compass and a map?

“South, Nuncio,” I clarify. “The small-scale organic chicken farm we considered a few years ago.”

It takes Nuncio’s brain another second to catch on that I’m referring to a Peruvian drug cartel. We mostly get our cocaine, a.k.a. “chicken,” from Colombia.

“Oh. Yes, that sounds good.”

“While we’re on the chicken… I got word that you’re considering adding drumsticks to the casinos’ snack menu.”

Nuncio’s face pales instantly. He leans back and stares at me with wide eyes. Well, well… My little spy was right. He was contemplating allowing drugs in my casinos. Even with the rage coursing through my veins, my lips curve into a smile. That girl is a menace.

“I see.” I nod. Then, I slam my handcuffed hands on the metal table. “Don’t you dare even think about fucking with my business ever again!”

Nuncio flinches in his chair, his body going stiff with tension. Years of having the Family kiss his ring and dance to his tune seem to be getting to him. Every now and then, my stepfather forgets who is actually in charge around here, so he comes up with stupid ideas. And then, he needs to be reminded of the reality.

With my hands clasped and resting on the tabletop, I pin him with my stare. “Don’t make me do things I would rather not do, Nuncio.”

Beads of sweat cling to his hairline while I continue glaring at him.

Having my stepfather prance about as the head of the Boston Family while I’m locked up is convenient. Once I’m out, he will officially transfer the reins to me. This arrangement is much more advantageous to him than fighting me for what he knows is rightfully mine, and it alleviates the need for me to tussle with other small-minded fools later. But I have no problem removing him from the picture now if he doesn’t follow my orders. And Nuncio knows it.

Dropping his gaze to the notepad before him, my stepfather slowly nods.

“Glad we sorted that out. How are the girls?”

“They’re fine. I’ve been looking into potential marriage matches for Nera. Do you want me to choose, or maybe you already have someone in mind?”

“And what does Nera think of the idea?”

“She threatened to go dancing through City Hall Plaza naked if I make an arrangement for her hand.”

A small smirk pulls at my lips. I remember her being bullheaded when she was little. “Cease all marriage efforts for now.”

Nuncio meets my eyes. “I didn’t expect you to care for Nera’s wishes.”

“Of course I do. We are a family, after all.”

In truth—I don’t give a fuck. But she is Elmo’s sister, and it’s only because of that I’m willing to consider her feelings on the matter. At least until marrying her off suits my needs. Then, I’ll send her marching straight down that aisle, singing and smiling, as she’ll be told to do.

“See you next Thursday.” I motion with my head toward the door on the opposite wall, signaling to Nuncio that our meeting is over.

I wait until he leaves, then meet the gaze of the CO uncuffing my wrists from the restraint ring welded to the table. He’s one of eight guards on my payroll. “I need to make a private phone call.”

“Of course.” He unlocks the cuffs and lays his phone in front of me. “Knock when you’re done.”

A moment later he exits the room, shutting the metal door after him with a resounding clang. That sound still grates on my nerves, even after all these years.

Lifting the phone, I dial Salvo’s number. We’ve been friends since we were kids, long before my mother married Nuncio, a lifetime prior to everything going to shit. He’s probably the only man I trust implicitly these days. Things would be a hell of a lot simpler if I could get Salvo to visit me here from time to time. I’d be able to get the latest on Cosa Nostra’s dealings without having to wade through Nuncio’s moronic crap. But that would broadcast to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that Salvo is still my supporter.

I don’t need the Family or anyone else getting suspicious, trying to figure out what I’m up to, so I can’t risk bringing Salvo here. He needs to keep his distance from me to maintain the trust of the other capos. None of them is a fan of mine. At times, though, I can’t count on anyone but my oldest friend to handle an urgent matter for me. That’s when I use a burner phone carried by the COs loyal to me to call Salvo. And this particular issue needs to be handled promptly.

The instant the line connects, I get straight to the point. “Brio and Leone have been hounding Nuncio to include chicken on the snack menu at the casinos. Were you aware?”

“No.” The silence stretches for a few heartbeats. “How did you find that out?”

“Doesn’t matter. Keep an eye on them. Especially Leone. Did your guy dig up any dirt on him?”

“Not really, aside from the fact that he’s banging Adriano’s wife.”

“Okay. Keep your man sniffing. Especially around Leone, but also the others,” I say. “You need to pay a visit to the Yakuza. Remind them about the deal I closed with Tanaka last year while he was locked up in here with me.”

“Will do. You’re including them in your future plans, then?”

“Maybe,” I say, reluctant to share more over the phone. “I’ll call you if I need anything else.” I pause for a breath but feel the need to add, “I owe you, and once I’m out, you’ll be rewarded for sticking by me all this time.”

“That’s not why I’m helping you, Massimo. You know that.” Salvo sighs. “Any news from your lawyer?”

I lean back in the chair and focus on the cracked ceiling. Five more years.

At the start of my prison term, I was optimistic. I had faith that McBride would be successful in appealing my sentence. No dice. Then, my hopes shifted to an early parole after I served the mandatory minimum of three years. But that got denied. And so did my next application. And the next. With every rejection, it became more and more clear that someone was doing their damnest to keep me locked up. Someone with deep pockets and the right connections to make it happen.Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

Nuncio has been my primary suspect since he stands to gain the most by keeping me in the pen. But I’m fairly certain he doesn’t have the balls. It must be someone else. Lately, I’ve been inclined to believe it’s Batista Leone. The snake has many friends inside the courts and the Department of Correction, and he’s cultivated that network since before he became my father’s underboss. I do not doubt that he knows somebody with the power to deny me parole.

“Nope,” I bite out. “Nothing new on that front.”

“I’ll reach out to my contacts again.”

“Alright.” I nod, knowing nothing will come of it. He’s tried several times already.

“Are you going to tell me who your other source is?”

For a split second, I contemplate keeping my little spy’s identity to myself, but then change my mind. I might need them to exchange info at some point. “My stepsister. Zahara.”

“You’re kidding me!” he chokes out. “How on earth… Isn’t she still in high school?”

“That makes her a very clever, resourceful student. She’s been getting me whatever I need for a couple of years now.”

A pregnant pause stretches across the line. Salvo is very rarely at a loss for words. My admission must have shocked him. I’m not sure why that would be the case. He knows me well enough, he shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t cling to principles of morality unless they align with my purposes, and I’ve never been above using anyone—regardless of who they are—to further my business interests.

“Keep watching Leone,” I say and cut the call.

Shortly after I return to my cell, Sam drops by with my mail. The rest of the prison population will be getting theirs after lunch, but I enjoy preferential treatment. As I tear open the envelope, I wonder if this letter will include another editorial on sewing. I don’t mind those. They serve as nice fillers, camouflaging the important information Zahara slips to me. And I find it funny when she asks what color fabric she should choose for her next project. As if I can tell the difference between chestnut and copper. It’s all fucking brown to me. Nevertheless, I often end up answering the bizarre questions posed by my teenage stepsister. It’s beyond idiotic. Still, it’s rejuvenating, somehow, to juggle such mundane things every now and then.

In my initial letters to her, which I sent infrequently until I could be sure they wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, I steered Zahara to tell me more about what was happening at home. The kind of shit that gave me a better idea of what Nuncio was up to, and what he may not be sharing with me. Who attended the annual Family meeting that Stepfather likes to host? Anyone new I might not have met? What did everyone talk about, or did it turn into a TED Talk? Small things that made it seem like I was missing being there. Then, I ramped it up a bit, focusing on broad areas of business. Is there anyone who doesn’t agree with Nuncio’s decisions? Do any of the C-level execs visit him more often than the rest? I figured whatever I could glean had the potential to be useful.

But as time passed, and more letters were exchanged, I realized that my stepsister could become an even greater asset than I previously considered. An asset I’d be an idiot not to exploit to the fullest extent.

So, I did.

About a year ago, I asked if she could find a particular document for me in her father’s office without him or anyone else knowing. My goal was to confirm that Nuncio followed my instructions and signed the contract as I ordered him to, but I was also eager to learn if she could pull it off. Lo and behold, not only did she locate what I was after and assure me that the contract had been executed, but she went a step further and relayed other specifics covered in the terms of the agreement—things like quantities and purchase rates.

A week later, she’d figured out my coded message on how to access Nuncio’s safe. Ever since then, unaware of my designs for her or the Family, my unsuspecting mole has been providing me with invaluable insights. Because of her, I know the exact details her father “forgets” to mention when he visits me on Thursdays to deliver his reports about our business. Or rather—my business.

My most recent instructions to Zahara included directions for logging onto her father’s computer and getting the online statements for our legitimate bank accounts. I want to keep an eye on the finances as much as I can. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about our hidden accounts, the ones that are attached to our illegal dealings. Despite taking every precaution I could to ensure no one fucks with my mail, I still won’t risk mentioning anything incriminating on paper. For now, I’ll have to take Nuncio’s word on the status of those funds.

I open her letter and scan the first paragraph with a furrowed brow. The numbers appear to be completely off—two-digit values when the balances should be in millions. And then, it hits me. She omitted the zeros, just as I often do when I write to her. Clever girl.

The next few sentences are about her friend’s engagement party she attended a week prior. I doubt there’s anything useful to me in these. Yet, I still read them, every word.

The letter concludes, as usual, with her questions. Sometimes they are about my life behind bars, but more often than not, they are about me. As a person. I ignored them at first or deflected with short, vague answers. Recently, however, I find myself divulging more details.

I mainly told her about the small things I miss the most. (Metal utensils and regular dinnerware. Freedom to shower whenever the fuck I want. Normal street clothes.) My opinion on the Almighty. (I’m not a believer in a supreme, all-powerful force that miraculously impacts our lives.) Justice, and my views on right and wrong. (The rule of law and the principle of righteousness are a two-way street—the moral correctness of any action depends on which side you ask to define them.)

One time, though, she asked me about Elmo. Do you remember him? Can you tell me what he was like? It took me hours to compose the response to her. Not because I struggled to recall the facts and anecdotes. I didn’t. But because Elmo’s death is still a bleeding wound. Back then—as is now—I still blame myself for not getting to him sooner. For not saving him. I told her that, right before I relayed everything I knew and remembered about her brother. Everything, because she deserved to know him, too.

That was the one and only heavy message I sent her. The rest were a subsurface fluff. It felt strange and sort of silly to share those things with someone. Especially my little stepsister. It still feels that way, at times.

You should keep your focus on more important things instead of bitching about missing real forks.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, hoping it will make the chatty asshole in my head go away. It doesn’t. The fucker continues to enjoy his permanent residence, as he has since he showed up.

It’s cushy here. Now, grab that pen and tell the girl to keep her ear to the ground. We need to know more if there’s talk of chicken on the menu.

Zahara

“Use the other sink.” A girl’s whispered voice comes from behind me. “You don’t wanna catch that thing she has.”

I roll my eyes. Same old story, every time. I stopped explaining about my vitiligo long ago, so I just leave the bathroom without bothering to respond to these bitches. God, I’m so sick of them. It’s easier to handle everyone’s cattiness when Hannah is around. Although we aren’t particularly close, she never treats me like an outcast. But she broke her ankle last week and won’t be back at school for a while. Her family moved her into some fancy treatment facility specializing in sports and dance injuries where she could recover.

As I walk along the corridor to the main door, I keep my head down, my gaze trained no more than a handful of steps in front of me. I avoid meeting the eyes of anyone I pass, as I always do. This time, however, something is nagging me. It’s like an itch at the back of my neck. Something deep below the surface that I can’t just scratch away.

Nothing about this moment is different from any other—I bear the scorn of my schoolmates, whether they merely ignore me or openly stare as if I’m a freak. The usual. And, like a scared little mouse, I don’t look back at them. As usual.

My feet falter. That itch on my nape feels like more than simple irritation. I stop in the middle of the hall, staring at the tips of my shoes while my mind drifts to Massimo’s latest letter, and that one sentence in particular. It was probably nothing more than an afterthought, only a handful of words, but they ring loudly in my head.

You’re a menace, kid. Great job.

I certainly have never viewed myself as anything even remotely menacing. Someone like that exudes resolve and courage. Qualities I don’t think I possess. But maybe I do. After all, I’ve been sneaking into private places and spying on some of the most dangerous people in this city. And I’ve been sending coded messages to my stepbrother. In prison.

All that, and I’m still too intimidated to look a bunch of teenagers in the eyes. Why? Because I don’t want to see their contempt, their conviction that I’m somehow beneath them?

Maybe that’s why the back of my neck is itching, and the sensation is getting stronger with every second I continue to stare at the floor. Every atom in my body is buzzing in protest, rebelling against that downcast view.

Slowly, I lift my head. My gaze refocuses directly ahead of me, and I take my first step. And then another. Sure feet carry me forward until I walk out of the school with my head held high. And it feels so damn good.

As I approach the campus gates, I notice the absence of the shiny white SUV that usually drives me home. Instead, there’s a slick black sports car parked at the curb. With Capo Salvo Canali leaning on the hood.

“Mr. Canali?” I ask when I reach him. “Has something happened?”

“Salvo. Please. I sent Peppe back, told him I’ll drop you off at home.” In a much lower voice, he adds, “We need to talk.”

“Um… okay,” I mumble as I drop onto the passenger seat. What on earth could he possibly need to discuss with me? We’ve never actually spoken before.

Salvo gets behind the wheel and starts the car. Without a word, he pulls into traffic and proceeds to drive, and with every mile, the silence makes me feel more and more on edge. We’re almost at my house when I can’t stand it any longer.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Your sanity,” he says through his teeth. “Spying on your father for Massimo?”

I stiffen. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“He told me. I can’t believe he’d resort to using you, of all people, in such a way.”

My hands tighten around the straps of my backpack. I’m certain if I looked at them, my knuckles would be white. The realization that Salvo is one of Massimo’s other spies gets pushed aside when the rest of his words register. And the way he said them.

“Why not me?” I ask.

“Why?” His eyes cut to me and then back to the road. “Because you’re barely fucking sixteen! I mean, I know what Massimo is like, but this… Fuck! That manipulative motherfucker.”

“‘Manipulative motherfucker’?” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought the two of you were friends.”

“We are. It’s just… I can’t believe he’d exploit a child for his devious schemes.”

“I’m not a child. And I guess you don’t know him very well, then. If you did, you’d know that he’d do anything in his power to achieve his goals. Besides, it can hardly be called ‘exploitation’ if the other party is fully aware of the situation and has accepted the terms. And I am, and have. So it’s simply a mutually beneficial agreement.”

Salvo rakes his hand through his hair, shaking his head as if he can’t accept my response. He parks in our driveway and turns off the engine, a scowl darkening his face. “Jesus fuck. I thought you were a nice, meek girl who’s only interested in making your little dresses.”

Yeah. Just like everyone else. Except for the manipulative motherfucker who happens to be my stepbrother. He doesn’t think me incapable. Or inadequate. I grit my teeth and look Salvo right in the eye. “That just proves you don’t know me, either.”

Salvo’s expression moves between shock and incredulity. Taking advantage of his dumbfounded state, I throw open the car door and step out.

“Please keep your nose out of my business, Salvo,” I whisper-yell, slamming the door shut.

As soon as I’m in my room, I grab my notebook and tear out a sheet of paper. I usually fill my letters with a myriad of details—about Cosa Nostra, school, my sewing—enough that I ramble on for at least a couple of pages each time. Now, however, I scribble a single sentence. No greeting. No signature. Just a burning question.

Do you think I’m meek?

Massimo’s response arrives three days later. A lone sentence to match my own.

You might be many things, Zahara, but I’m afraid “meek” isn’t one of them.

The airy smile hasn’t left my face since I read his words.