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

All four of my spools of beige thread are gone. I sigh. Lucia must have taken them to play with. Her newest favorite pastime these days is stealing the bobbins from the basket that sits under my work table and weaving the fibers around and between the legs of the chair and the table, creating a jumbled mess, a sort of net-looking thing. When I asked her about it, she said she was a spider.

I can’t believe how fast the little munchkin is growing. She’s almost three and such a smart cookie. And on top of that, she has me firmly wrapped around her tiny finger. Or maybe just caught in her pint-sized spider web.

I smile thinking about my niece.

Heading to the living area, I continue my search, collecting the discarded sketches off the coffee table and couch along the way. My apartment at Leone Villa is always a mess. Nera says my stuff spreads as fast as the flu. Zippers, sewing magazines, and partly cut-out patterns litter the floor and furniture. The only stuff I keep organized are things like scissors and needles. Lucia could hurt herself with their sharp points and edges, and I can’t have that.

I find my tape measure along with some fabric scraps under one of the cushions, but no reels of thread. I’ll have to run out to buy replacements if I want to finish the new dress for Salvo’s mother on time. It’s probably the tenth I’ve made for her thus far. She’s been keeping me busy, enough that I had to replace Mom’s old sewing machine with a new one. Still, my skills are hardly couture for Rosetta to use me exclusively to make her outfits, but it sure seems like she stopped purchasing gowns off the rack. I think that’s Salvo’s doing. He must be pressuring her to deal with me somehow.

Every time I’m at their house to take Mrs. Canali’s measurements or have her try on a dress, Salvo happens to be there. Considering the randomness of my visits, it can’t be a coincidence.

I’ve stayed as far away from Salvo as I could over the years, so why the fuck does he keep insisting we should go out for lunch? There’s just something off-putting about him. When he’s at the Villa to meet with Nera, I don’t leave my room until he’s gone. Maybe it’s my lack of intimate experience with men, but Salvo’s subtle advances are starting to creep me out.

Hopefully, I can avoid him at Brio’s party that’s coming up next month. I wanted to skip it altogether, but in light of recent developments—specifically, the discovery that Capo Armando is the person behind the assassination attempts on my sister—I need to be there to gather intel about where the rest of La Famiglia stands.

Kai has kept Armando locked up in our basement since last night, and from what Nera has told me, he intends to question him. I hope he’ll get on with it soon so I can write to Massimo and mail the letter by five. The last thing I want is for it to sit in the collection box the whole weekend. God only knows how I’m going to wrap up that report in a way that wouldn’t raise any red flags if my letter were intercepted by a prison guard. It’s not as if I can say: Hey, my brand new brother-in-law just finished cutting the fingers off the guy we’ve had stashed in the basement, and here’s what we learned.

Hmm, maybe I could use the turkey analogy?

How about: Kai fowled the turkey that tried to bite off the head of the mommy hen. He finished de-winging and de-legging the beast, and… No, that sounds stupid. Maybe I should use “pluck” instead.

Spotting a golden strip peeking from under the couch, I reach for it just as I hear the door behind me open.

“I put Lucia down for a nap in your room,” I say, rolling up the ribbon I’ve pulled out. “Did Kai’s weird friends finally leave?”

“They did.” A raspy male baritone rumbles at my back.

Somewhere in the universe, two neutron stars collide. The force of that impact travels through me. I know that voice. I’ve been listening to it day and night, playing the two-minute recording of his call on repeat like an obsessed woman. Goose bumps break out across my arms, and all the fine hairs rise as if an electric current just zapped through me. His voice sounds deeper in person. More intense. It’s been years since I heard it from only steps away, but I could never forget it. With my breath caught in my throat, I stand up and turn around.

Massimo is lingering in my doorway, his huge form dominating the space, sucking all the oxygen from the room. The perfectly tailored gray suit he’s wearing fits him like it’s bespoke, accentuating his wide shoulders. The two top buttons of his white dress shirt are undone, revealing hints of the colorful ink on his chest and neck. He looks so polished, so civilized, that for a moment, I find it hard to believe he is the same unscrupulous man who’s been haunting me for years. But when my eyes lock with his, I realize it’s just an illusion. He is the same vicious predator I’ve come to know so well. Only shrouded in fancy clothing.

Is this real? Is he? Or is it just my imagination playing tricks? There are still six months left of his sentence. How can he be here?

I gape at Massimo as he strides across the room, his long steps eating the distance between us way too fast. And once again I find myself battling temporal quicksand. Held captive by my fate but unable to accept it. Years of wanting to be with this man does not mean I’m ready to face him now. I should be used to this feeling. After all, when I went to see him in prison, it took me three hours to psych myself up before I was able to walk through that door.

He stops just in front of me and lifts his hand, then lightly brushes my cheek with his knuckles. “Hello, Zahara.”

A shiver runs down my spine. It’s as if I’m trapped in a time warp and the scene at my father’s funeral is repeating. He is real.

“How?” I choke out.

“Salvatore Ajello,” he says. “I don’t know how that motherfucker managed to pull off what I and the good-for-nothing McBride couldn’t do for years, but he did. Ajello’s personal attorney arrived with my idiot lawyer this morning, bringing the required paperwork. I was released an hour later.”

He’s standing so near that his body heat is seeping into me. The blood in my veins turns molten. The breath disappears from my lungs. Bone-shaking tremors rack me inside out, completely obliterating any logical thought.

Massimo’s eyes drop to my chest, focusing on the platinum chain and the delicate pearl and diamond teardrop pendant hanging off it. “You’re wearing my gift.”

“Yes,” I choke out, my throat feeling so dry and raw. “I… I have to take it off before I go to sleep, but it doesn’t irritate my skin otherwise.”

“Good. Saves me a trip to Paris to off Mr. Dubois.”

“So… you’re a free man.” Somehow, I’m able to keep my voice from breaking.

I knew this day would come eventually. And I’m so damn happy. For him. But I also want to curl into a ball and weep, because this means, whatever this relationship is between the two of us, it’s over. He doesn’t need me anymore.

After today, I’ll lose him.

“Yes.” He nods. The tips of his fingers glide over the smooth skin under my left eye, lingering there for a second, but then his hand falls away. “I saw Nera downstairs. Just as I promised, she can leave Cosa Nostra at any time, and I told her so.”

I fight my tears, barely keeping them at bay. “And you? What are you going to do now?”

“I’ll be summoning the Council and setting up the official takeover of the Family for this weekend. Then, I’m going to focus on finding whoever has been fucking with my life and keeping me in that cage. Once that’s done, I’ll kill the bastard. Or bastards. Whatever.” He glances around the room. “But first, I’ll have this house leveled, as well as everything else that belonged to Batista Leone. You should start packing.”

Yeah, I guess I should. Whirling around, I head toward my bed where it’s pushed into the corner of the room. My legs are trembling so hard, I expect them to fold under me any second.

Holy hell, I can still feel his touch on my face. For just a second_a tiny fraction of a moment_I let those long-suppressed hopes and dreams flare up within me, let myself believe that things between us may have changed. Over the years, he’s clearly opened to me. I felt it deep inside my soul. From the day I confronted him in prison, the Massimo I knew transformed into something more. His letters became a lot more open, sharing details about his prison life. His thoughts. His struggles. Even some regrets. And as his letters turned more and more personal, I almost convinced myself that he could have developed some feelings. For me.

A humorless laugh nearly escapes me. I’m still just an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit. Wake up, Zahara! Can’t you see he wants you out of his life right away?

“Kai has an apartment downtown, so we’ll move everything there for now,” I mumble. “We’ll be out of your way by the end of the day.”

I have two big suitcases shoved under the bed. Pulling out the larger one, I drag it in front of the dresser and open it right there on the floor. The heat of Massimo’s eyes boring into my back is nearly scalding as I start yanking out my clothes and haphazardly dropping everything into the suitcase.

Why is he still standing there? I’m this close to losing my composure, and having him here is making this whole situation a hundred times worse.

I grab a black satin dress off the hook on the closet door and just dump it into the suitcase along with the hanger. It took me almost an hour to iron it last night, but that hardly seems to matter right now. My new lace blouse is next. Then, the cashmere coat. I don’t even pay attention to whether anything gets torn or damaged. I just throw in one thing after the other, trying to “pack” as fast as possible because I can’t handle being this close to him while I quietly fall apart.

Will I ever see him again?

Behind me, the rhythmic scrape of leather soles on a hardwood floor. Getting closer. My breathing quickens. I pick up my pace, now throwing garments by the armful into the suitcase, while Massimo looms at my back. He’s close enough that his next exhale fans across the top of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold myself together.

“I think you misunderstood.” The velvety timbre of his voice washes over me, and I try to commit it to memory. It might be the last time I hear it.

“Misunderstood what?” I croak.

“You’re not leaving with your sister.” Massimo dips his head until his mouth is right next to my ear. “You’re coming with me.”

My body goes utterly still. He’s standing so, so close, there’s barely any space between us. His stubble lightly brushes my cheek, the rest of him maintaining not much more than the suggestion of distance. Yet still, it feels as if I’m somehow being drawn into his chest. His warm breath wafts over my overheated skin, making me lightheaded while I struggle to process his words.

“Why?” I ask, clutching my maroon alpaca cardigan like a lifeline. Is this simply another one of his games?

He doesn’t answer. For what feels like an eternity, Massimo just stands there at my back like some huge immovable statue. My question was simple, so I don’t understand why it takes him so long to reply. Perhaps… perhaps he does feel something toward me after all?

“Because I need you, Zahara.”

The pounding of my heart skyrockets, becoming so loud it thunders in my ears. Warmth explodes in my chest, swelling and radiating toward my weakened limbs, overtaking my entire—

“I need someone I can trust. Someone who knows what’s at stake and who can fill me in on everything I’ve missed.”

The icy grip of winter crushes me, and the joy I felt plummets like a lead balloon. Frost creeps into my bloodstream, supercooling the air in my lungs. Not a spark of the previous warmth remains. Of course. Why else would he want me close to him? He’s not finished taking over his empire. Not done seizing his due respect and power.

Did you really think there’d be another reason?

I take a deep breath. And then another. At least he’s honest. He’s always been that with me. But for the first time ever, I hate him for it. I wish he’d lied and said it was because he likes me. I know it’s not true, but I’d rather believe a lie right now than face the cold hard truth.

Biting my cheek, I turn around and tilt my head up until our gazes meet.

Dark pools. I had no idea a person’s eyes could be the deepest shade of night. His are so dark that I can’t distinguish his irises from his pupils. It’s like falling into two bottomless black holes, and they are dragging me into their depths.

For most of my life, I rarely met other people’s eyes. Largely because I was afraid they’d glimpse the insecurities I tried so hard to hide and would find a way to use them against me. But also, because I didn’t want to see what was hidden in their stares. Their unsuppressed opinions of me. How weak I was—for not standing up for myself, for not confronting those who said shit about me. Their convictions that I must be stupid, all because I avoided conflict. Seeing those things in their eyes, made me believe them. I felt small. Worthless. Inadequate. Aside from Nera, who is biased by sisterly love, not a single soul has ever made me feel good about myself.

Until him.

There isn’t even a speck of reproach or pity in Massimo’s dark gaze as he practically scorches me with his hellish-looking eyes. Trust. Respect. Even admiration. There’s something else there, though. A dangerous glint that makes my heart beat even faster. A dark unknown that I can’t quite discern.

The way he is looking at me now makes me feel as if I’m brave. And daring. Like I can do anything. Maybe even dance naked through the City Hall Plaza as Nera once threatened to do.

“And what if I say no?” I ask. “What if I want to go with my sister?”

Massimo’s nostrils flare. His jaw is set in a hard line and the veins in his neck are bulging. He’s a rather terrifying sight—towering over me so large and inked and obviously enraged by my questions. If it was anyone else but him, I would have run and hidden by now. But I don’t feel threatened by him at all, because even angry, he still looks at me with the same reverence as he did a minute ago.

He fists his hands, which makes his biceps pop inside his tailored suit. Several seconds pass while he just stares at me. Then, he gives me a curt nod and turns to leave without a word.

I follow him with my eyes as he strides across the room, heading to the door. We both know Nera is the only one getting a free pass. Not me. That was the deal we struck. As the imminent and rightful don, Massimo has every right to make me do whatever the fuck he wants. And still, he is walking away. Respecting my decision. Seeing me as a partner. Traversing level ground.

I have no delusions about the type of person he is. God knows, Massimo is the furthest thing from a saint. He’s a killer. A master manipulator who doesn’t think twice about disposing of anything or anyone who stands in his way. An unscrupulous, cunning man who used an adolescent girl like a pawn because it served his purpose. But he has never pretended to be something he isn’t. Not with me. Is that why I’ve fallen so crazy in love with him?

“Massimo,” I call out.

He’s already at the door, but he halts immediately.

“I need half an hour to finish packing,” I say. “Then, I’ll say goodbye to Nera and Lucia, and we can leave.”

Slowly, he turns around and pins me with his dark eyes. “You won’t ask where?”

I reach inside the closet and grab a stack of sweaters. “No.”

I would follow him anywhere. Even to the depths of hell.

Massimo

The wind blows in my face as I scrutinize the three-story mansion in all its decaying glory. Every window across the structure’s facade is dark, all except for two on the ground floor, making the whole thing look sadder somehow. Even in the fading light, there is no missing the peeling paint on the moldings or the rust that has settled on the white iron balcony railings. The damn place looks just how I feel.

“Your childhood home?” Zahara asks next to me.

“Yes.” I nod. “One of them. The house we moved to when Dad became the don.” My eyes sweep the neglected building once more. “There were always more important matters that needed to be handled, so it kind of slipped my mind to arrange for someone to take care of it. It’s been vacant since Mom and I moved out.”

I look down at Zahara and find her hugging herself. Shrugging off my suit jacket, I drape it over her shoulders, careful not to touch her unintentionally. That single brief stroke of her cheek earlier is the most I’ve allowed myself. I shouldn’t have done even that, but the temptation to feel her sweet essence, if only for an instant, was too great.

What the hell are you doing?

Yeah… I’ve been asking myself that question from the moment I asked her to come with me. Actually, I didn’t even ask. Just proclaimed it like an egotistical asshole, but I think she knew I meant it as a request.

When I arrived at the Leone Villa, my intentions were only to make the necessary arrangements with Nera and then leave. Seeing Zahara was not in the plan. I feared that if I saw her, I’d never be able to let her out of my sight again. My apprehension obviously proved right. The will to walk away dissolved as soon as my eyes found her. Maybe I never had power in the first place. After all, my feet carried me to her apartment while my mind screamed that I might as well be heading to my doom. But resisting seeing her—just once—was never an option for me.

You should have tried harder! She’s nothing but a pawn. One whose usefulness has expired, and you need to shed that deadweight off your back.

She was a pawn. But no longer. Somewhere along the way, Zahara became the force that was holding me together. Stepping foot outside the prison gates this morning, my physical form may have technically been free, but it was only after seeing Zahara, that I was finally able to breathe like a truly free man.

Fuck! The girl is twenty-one. Barely an adult. And she’s your goddamned family! You need to stop this bullshit and send her away. Now!

I know. But I fucking can’t.

Something transpired between us when our eyes met on the day of Nuncio’s funeral. What I saw in her piercing stare—her knowledge of me and understanding—that… shook me to my core. As if I’ve been struck by lightning. Something changed at that moment. A huge, fundamental shift in me, like an electric current switching its direction after a sudden surge, heading where it was never meant to be. Set on a very worrisome, forbidden course. Instead of plotting a new way to reach my lifelong goal, every waking second for over three years, I’ve spent thinking about her. My stepsister.

Days became a battle for survival, not for my life but for my peace of mind, filled with endless waiting. For the time I’d see a CO carrying that envelope to me. I would then fucking inhale every single word she wrote. The parts about business, the ones that were my main interest before, those I skipped in favor of passages she’d penned about herself. Once I’d read the personal sections at least a couple of times, I forced my attention to the Cosa Nostra shit. And after that, I’d spend my days anxiously waiting for her next letter.

I tried to rationalize it, convince myself that it was only a familial bond. Anything else was simply a product of my screwed-up mind after spending nearly two decades in a cage. Fuck knows it’s hard enough to remain sane even during a short stint in the pen. I’m thankful as hell I can still count backward from ten. But I didn’t expect being stuck in that hole would turn me into a sick goddamned bastard.NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.

One who’s fallen for his stepsister.

But that shit stops right fucking now.

I brought her with me because I couldn’t face the reality of no longer having her in my life. As a friend. A trusted ally.

Both are in short supply for me at the moment.

She knows me. I need her.

Nothing more.

“Let’s have a look inside.” I gesture toward the house, pulling myself out of my twisted thoughts.

A couple of white vans bearing the logo of a housekeeping service on their sides are parked on the driveway, not far from the main entrance. I thought I was clear in my instructions this morning that everyone had to be gone prior to my arrival. As we climb the chipped stone steps to the front door, I instinctively reach for the small of Zahara’s back.

She’s your stepsister. Drill that into your stupid brain. No touching!

I wrest my hand away. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with a stepbrother laying a supportive hand on his stepsister’s back. The problem is, as hard as I try, I can’t make myself see her as my stepsibling.

I open the front door and the hinges squeak from lack of use. Drawing a deep breath, I step inside the house that once was my refuge.

And enter chaos.

Halfway up the wide staircase facing the foyer, two women, wearing pale-blue uniforms that mark them as maids with the cleaning service, are polishing the banister. A guy, using an appliance that’s threatening to split my fucking head open with its noise, is buffing the marble floors nearby. On the right, through the column-flanked archway to the lounge area, I notice several more people buzzing around—vacuuming the furniture upholstery and dusting the light fixtures. There are more workers in the dining room off the left side of the foyer. A dozen people. Maybe more.

Anxiety surges within me, threatening to overwhelm me completely. I need these people out.

“Mr. Spada.” A man around my age, dressed in a pale-blue suit that matches the cleaning staffs’ uniforms, rushes toward me with a clipboard in hand. “We are slightly behind schedule. The second floor has been completed. New linens and towels have all been provided, as requested, and—”

“Out,” I rasp.

“—groceries have arrived. I had one of my employees put them into—”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to suppress the noise and the presence of all these people. But the idiot in front of me keeps talking, spewing some nonsense about the curtains. With every word, my agitation transforms into rage. I take a deep breath, hoping it will help subdue the urge to snap the ignorant prick’s neck.

My hair-trigger temper died in the ass during my time behind bars. Typically, being in familiar surroundings and around people I know helped calm me down. Marginally, at least. Since leaving the prison walls behind me, however, I’ve been hovering on the brink of bashing someone’s head in.

“—Oh, and what do you need us to do with—”

My eyes fly open. I grab the front of the bastard’s blue suit and lift him.

“I SAID, OUT!” I roar into his face. “EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU CUNTS!”

A light touch lands on my forearm. “Massimo, stop.”

The haze of red and the madness clouding my mind retreat a little. I release a long exhale, then lower the frantic housekeeping manager to the floor.

“Thank you for the amazing work,” Zahara says next to me. “Please gather your employees and leave. We’ll call you tomorrow to address whatever is outstanding.”

The man nods frantically, then sprints away, gesturing with his hand and ordering his people to depart. I stand motionless, staring aimlessly ahead, while workers dash past me one by one.

Feeling Zahara’s eyes on me every second.

The front door shuts with a loud click. Finally, blissful silence.

“Massimo? What was that?”

“Nothing,” I say, furious with myself. “I was always quick to shoot, quick to anger. But I never lost my temper without reason. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“You didn’t. But you did scare them.” She places her hand on my forearm again. “Are you alright?”

I look at her, so beautiful and so… calm, even after I lost my shit right in front of her, and some of her calmness seeps into me. The tension in my muscles slowly loosens.

“Nope,” I say. “I thought that, once I was freed, things would just go back to how they were. That I’d be back to my old self again. But… I’m not sure that’s possible anymore.”

“I’m not sure how it could be. You’ll have to learn to live with who you are today.”

Her palm slides down to my hand, and she laces her fingers with mine. The contact sears my skin—her touch both scorching and soothing.

“Let’s go see what the cleaning company has done so we can assess the state of your home.”

I let her pull me across the entry hall and into the dining room, clutching her hand in mine as if it’s my only hope for survival.

Maybe it is.

***

The slow drip from the leaking tap in the corner echoes through the illuminated space. The sound rings hollow as drops of water land in the metal sink. Above it, the constant buzzing of a fluorescent bulb. “Lights out” is just a euphemism around here. Although muffled by the distance, the screams coming from somewhere in the adjacent block still reach me. The heat is brutal; the humidity is even worse, clinging to me with a sticky sheen. The putrid air is heavy, and there’s no way to escape its suffocating weight. I turn onto my side, facing the gray wall of the cell, and start counting the cracks in the old paint.

Rusty hinges squeak as the door opens with a clang behind me. Rushed steps, drawing closer. I leap from the bunk and face the man holding a shiv formed from a shard of glass tightly in his hand. The same bald motherfucker who tried to kill me after I got back from Nuncio’s funeral is standing in the middle of my cell. Behind him, his bossy short buddy grins, bearing rotten and missing teeth. I swing at “Harry,” aiming for his ugly mug, but my movements are too sluggish. It’s as if I’m pushing my fist through dense paste rather than fucking air. The bastard smiles. And buries the glass shank between my ribs.

My eyes snap open.

The walls are pale beige, but the paint is peeling in several spots. Half-burned logs molder in the neglected fireplace and a layer of dust coats the once distinguished mantel. The furniture is covered with white sheets.

My home.

I push to a sitting position on the couch and take a look at the laptop I left open on the coffee table. Three in the morning. I dozed off. For a whole twenty minutes.

Last night, Zahara helped me find a renovation company specializing in interior design, and boasting the fastest turnaround times on the market. Then, she contacted them through their website and scheduled a consultation for first thing in the morning. I’m thankful for her help. I’m sure I would have eventually figured out how to do it myself, but I would have wasted hours on that shit.

I thought my main challenge after I got out would be regaining the helm of my businesses. I didn’t count on needing to learn how to navigate a much wider world than the one I left behind eighteen years ago. In prison, access to the internet is limited, and online activity is always monitored. Mostly, only educational sites are allowed. I tried to keep up, but at present, I feel a bit out of sync with the times.

As I walk from room to room on the ground floor of the darkened house, the dull tap of my shoes is the only sound in the eerie silence of the abandoned home. I got so used to the nonstop clamor in the pen, that now, all this quiet is a blessing and a curse, and it’s making me jumpy in the noiseless dark. The shadows move around me, something I haven’t experienced for a long fucking time. I can’t be certain if I’m alone or if some asshole is hiding within the shrouded spaces. Glancing outside, I thought I saw someone sneaking through the yard. But did I, or was it a trick of my restless mind and unaccustomed-to-the-dark eyes? My skin crawls with awareness, and a strong premonition of impending doom has me bracing for shit to hit the fan at any moment.

I climb the stairs to the second floor and continue my aimless meandering through the mansion. My head is killing me, from the lack of sleep most likely. Years of getting by on a few winks are taking their toll. Or maybe I’m just getting old. Whatever it is, I’m fairly certain I won’t get any more rest tonight. Not in this place that’s still so familiar but also not at all. I don’t even realize I’m heading directly toward the room where Zahara is sleeping until I’m standing in front of the door at the far end of the hall. Everything is quiet here, too, but the unease I felt on the lower levels has greatly diminished.

Undoing the top few buttons of my shirt, I slide down to the floor, leaning my back on the opposite wall. And then, I just stare at the door before me.