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

“No. The decision has been made, and I’m not changing my mind.” I squeeze the phone between my shoulder and my ear and reach for the plate of prosciutto. “The men stay put. It’s not up for discussion, Salvo.”

The pan sizzles as I drop the slices of Italian ham over the egg mixture. An omelet is the only dish I know how to make, but I’m not letting any fucking stranger come near Zahara’s food. Once Peppe gets here, I’ll tell him that he’s in charge of the kitchen from now on. I’m sure he will be thrilled with his new duty. I just don’t trust any of the staff. He better know how to cook or we might have a problem.

“You can’t give orders before the meeting with the Council, Massimo.”

“No shit?” I grab a plate out of the cupboard. “Well, in that case, feel free to come over and tell them to leave.”

A long exasperated sigh comes from the other end of the line. “You know they won’t.”

Damn right, they won’t.

“I’m busy, Salvo. We’ll discuss all of your concerns when you come by this evening. Now, any luck locating my favorite member of the justice system?”

“As I understand, Judge Collins is vacationing at his cabin somewhere in Vermont. He acquired it last Friday and couldn’t wait to get away.”

“The same day I got released? What a coincidence.”

“I’ve spoken to him on several occasions, Massimo. He was worried that if he took it easy on you, people might suspect his association with us. There wasn’t any foul play on his part, no one bribed him. He was just doing his job.”

Yeah. The epitome of righteousness, that one. He had no objection to reaching out to Nuncio and hiding behind Cosa Nostra when Irish loan sharks were breathing down his neck.

“Call me as soon as you have his exact location, or if he returns to Boston in the meantime.” I disconnect the call and throw the phone on the counter, then carry the plate over to the small breakfast table by the window. As I’m heading over to grab cutlery and a glass of juice, the kitchen door swooshes open.

“Mr. Spada! Oh, I’m so sorry.” A maid dashes into the room and turns toward the table. “Please, let me help you set up—”

“Don’t touch that plate!”

The girl flinches and freezes in place. “But… I just…”

“Out! Now!”

“Massimo? What’s going on?”

My head snaps to the side. Zahara is standing in the doorway, her gaze bouncing between me and the maid, who seems to be on the brink of tears. I don’t care about the girl’s feelings in the least—she should have known better than to try handling food without explicit permission—except the look of reproach in Zahara’s eyes makes me falter.

Clenching my jaw, I point my chin at the door as I address the maid. “You can leave. Peppe is the only person allowed in the kitchen.”

Zahara arches an eyebrow.

“And I apologize for yelling,” I say through gritted teeth.

The maid mumbles something and rushes past Zahara, who is still holding me pinned with her unwavering stare.

“I appreciate the effort, but that didn’t sound like a heartfelt apology to me.”

“The girl was going to mess with your breakfast,” I grumble. “I’ve witnessed inmates spiking food with bad dope or other shit too many times.”

Zahara’s gaze moves to the plate I’ve set on the table, and a strange look crosses her face. “You made this?”

“Yes. But don’t get your hopes up, it’s only an omelet. I figured you must be sick of takeout after the last two days.”

I watch her as she slowly approaches the table. She’s wearing high-waisted brownish-red pants that emphasize the perfect curve of her hips and hug her mouthwatering, round ass.

Purge the mental images of your hands stroking your stepsister’s behind. Right the fuck now! And the ones where you strip her of her clothes!

I shut my eyes and shake my head in a useless attempt to do the right thing. When I open them again, Zahara is sitting at the table, bringing a forkful of the omelet to her mouth.

“Tinia has worked for my father for years,” she says before taking a bite. “She was not going to spike my food.”

“Tinia?” My eyes and whatever brain cells are still functioning are transfixed on Zahara’s lips. Her pouty mouth is the only thing I’m capable of thinking about right now.

“The maid you just yelled at.”

“Right. Well, I’m not taking any chances.” I quickly turn around and busy myself with stuffing the dirtied pan into the dishwasher.

“Please tell me it was a joke when you said you’re putting Peppe in charge of the kitchen.”

“Nope. I don’t trust the staff you hired.”

“I do, though. Most of them have worked for my family for years. If it makes things easier, Iris can cook for us. I trust her completely.”

“Trusting someone entirely is not wise.”

“Well, she’s the one who helped me with your letters for all the time I was at Dad’s. And she is not going to poison anyone.”

I lean on the counter and watch Zahara eat. “You have no qualms?”

“None.”

“Fine, then.” I nod. I trust her judgment. “Salvo is coming over tonight. He should have Armando’s tox screen results, so we’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with. But I’m betting your wacko of a brother-in-law is right, and the idiot was offed with cyanide.” The night before I was released, Armando set up an ambush for Zahara’s sister. Kai, Nera’s main squeeze turned hubby now, caught him. The braid-wearing son of a bitch broke the traitorous capo’s arms and legs and then dumped him in their basement. When I arrived the next morning, however, we found Armando dead, foaming at the mouth like the rabid dog he was.

“I don’t think Nera would approve of you calling her husband a wacko. He has a name, you know.” Zahara picks up a piece of prosciutto with two perfectly manicured fingers and brings it to her lips.

My eyes follow the movement like I’m goddamned hypnotized. And then, she licks the tips of those delicate fingers. And I… I almost fucking combust on the spot. Shit!

I rest the back of my head in my hands and take a deep breath.

“Why did you shave your head?” she asks.

“Habit.” Since my last necessary grooming, my hair had grown almost half an inch, so I got rid of it this morning. “In lockup, grabbing someone’s hair was the easiest way to keep ahold of them to smash their face. Or to get in a few stab wounds, maybe even slit their throat.”

“You’re not in prison anymore, Massimo.”

“I know. Sometimes though, that detail kind of slips my mind. I didn’t even think about it when I picked up the razor this morning.” I glide my palm over the curve of my smooth head. “It’s been years. I wonder what I’d look like if I just let it grow.”

“Me too,” she whispers.

I meet her eyes.

“You’re out,” she continues in that soft voice that sounds like the sweetest music. “You need to stop looking at every person as if they are the enemy. And you need to let go of your paranoia that someone is going to kill me.”

I look away, focusing on the jasmine vines beyond the window. Last night, as I lay in front of Zahara’s bedroom door, waiting for sleep to claim me, I thought quite a bit about my unfounded concerns.

There’s no logical reason for anyone to want Zahara dead. Hurting her won’t gain anyone an advantage.

I know that. I also know that I should stay away from her. But I can’t. Can’t make myself do it, either. The mere idea of something bad happening to her is making me lose my shit.

Stop finding those pitiful excuses. She doesn’t need your protection. You’re simply trying to justify your actions, creating a rationale for hovering close to her. It needs to stop.

Sometimes, I wish I could get my hands on the voice inside my head and choke the fucker out. Because the asshole is right all too often.

Damn right, I am.

Fine. No more imagined death threats. No more stupid reasons for keeping her with me all the time.

I grab the carton of eggs off the counter and carry it to the fridge. “I have to go shopping. Only two of the suits my lawyer got for me fit.”

Zahara looks up from her plate. “Okay. I’ll do my unpacking since I haven’t had time, yet.”

“Good,” I say, aimlessly staring at the contents of the fridge, then I slam the door shut. “That’s good.”

Like a mindless moron, I head toward the door. Halfway there, my steps falter. I stop. There are nine heavily armed men on every shift. Is that enough to cover the house and the perimeter of the estate?

Yes, it is.

I continue, only to pause again at the threshold. Maybe I should take her with me? Just in case? There are a lot of fuckers from the reno company on site. Any one of them could pose a danger.

Nope. No more excuses.

I grab the jamb on both sides and squeeze until my hands ache.

Don’t.

Do NOT fucking say it.

I grit my teeth. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to remain here alone. Go get your purse, Zahara.”

I love shopping, but I usually do it alone or with my sister. Trying on clothes in front of other people is not my thing. On the few rare occasions when I joined Nera and her friends, I usually ended up standing off to the side, watching them parade about in all sorts of outfits and shoes. I have to admit, though, seeing Massimo as he tries on suit after suit is a sight to behold. Even though this one is still too tight in the shoulder area, just like the previous four.

“Did men shrink in the past two decades or something?” Massimo grunts as he struggles to button the jacket over his chest. The fabric is stretched so tight over his broad frame that it looks like it could burst at any second. The way the sleeves are straining around his bulging biceps is rather comical, too. Not to mention, they are way too short.

“I don’t think so.” I try to keep my face straight, barely containing my laughter. “I guess you’ll have to wait for the ones you ordered from the tailor to be done.”

“The motherfucker said he needs three days. I can’t go around naked.”

A blush creeps up my cheeks just from imagining that scenario.

Yes, please.

“Um… let me see the seams. There might be a way to let them out.” I take his wrist, inspecting the hem of the sleeve, then pull his arm up, trying to gauge the presence of extra material at the seam along the side. “I can try, except I’m not sure if it will look good.”

“Sir, let me see,” the sales associate chirps from her spot by the shelf of folded shirts and rushes toward Massimo. I noticed her ogling him the moment we stepped inside the store. She was all too ready to assist him.

Tall and thin, she’s dressed in a bright-yellow sleeveless blouse that ties around her neck, leaving her arms and back bare. I can’t stop looking at her flawless skin—there isn’t even one blemish on it. The last time I wore a short-sleeved top, I was in elementary.

The associate stops in front of Massimo, right next to me, and reaches for the lapels of his suit jacket.

A pang of jealousy hits me right in the chest. I let go of the sleeve and take a quick step back. Am I a bad person for hating a random, unfamiliar woman just because she looks so perfect? Because they look so perfect standing next to each other?

“Get your hands off me,” Massimo growls.

The woman tenses and retreats. “I apologize. I was just thinking…”

“You thought wrong.” He turns around and stalks into the changing room, slamming the door closed in his wake.

A long sigh sounds on my left. I look at the sales lady as she stares at the closed door Massimo just disappeared behind, adoration clearly written all over her face.

“Your boss is such an intense man.” She sighs again. “Any chance I can get his phone number?”

Every fiber of my being stiffens, and I wonder how in hell this woman knows who Massimo is. He might not be the official don yet, but— Oh. She didn’t mean “boss” in that context. I guess, she just assumed I’m Massimo’s PA.

“Not from me. You’ll have to ask him yourself,” I mumble.

I shouldn’t be surprised. No one in their right mind would think I’m Massimo’s girlfriend or anything along those lines. Soon after we stepped inside the mall, I realized the reaction the man beside me could draw from women. He didn’t even need to try. Every woman we passed stared at him with lust-filled eyes. With his tall muscular frame, shaved head, and tattoos covering his neck and hands, Massimo is one of those men who command attention simply by walking into the room. Each woman, without exception, gazed at him as if he was larger than life. If I thought he had that effect only on me, I was hugely mistaken.

“I need to stop at the drugstore,” Massimo says as he approaches me and lays his palm on the small of my back. “The shower gel McBride got me smells like cat piss.”

“I think I saw one down that hallway,” I mutter, distracted by his touch.

“Great. Do you need anything?”

“No. I…” We’ve left the men’s clothing store, and his hand is still resting on my lower back. “I can’t use regular cosmetics. I usually buy special products for sensitive skin.”

“Maybe they’ll have some. We’ll ask.”

“I would need to check the ingredients listed for each. It takes time, and Salvo is coming in less than an hour.”

“Fuck Salvo.”

We find the drugstore just a few doors down. Massimo heads to the personal care aisle and grabs a random bottle of body wash off the shelf.

“Don’t you want to smell it first?” I ask.

“Can’t be worse than the one I have at home. Trust me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I actually think it smells nice. Lemony.”

Massimo stops and looks at me. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Does he think it’s strange that I’ve noticed his scent?

“You sure?” His eyes glint, yet I can’t quite decipher the expression.

“Um… I don’t know. I think so. Lemon. Or lime, maybe.”

Slowly and without breaking our locked stare, he leans down until our faces are almost even.

“Why don’t you check?” He tilts his head to the side. “I can’t go around smelling like cat piss.”

With my heart rate jumping to double speed, I lean forward and touch the tip of my nose to his neck. As I inhale, his scent fills my nostrils.

“Lime,” I rasp. He’s still bent down, his cheek lightly brushing mine, so I draw in another deep sniff. “Definitely not cat piss.”

“Jasmine.” His voice is rough next to my ear.

“What?”

“The way you smell.” His lips feather over my earlobe, and a small shiver runs down my spine. “Like jasmine. And peace.”

I swallow. A man walks by us down the aisle and catches Massimo’s leg with his basket. Still, Massimo does not move. He remains hovering over me, and I feel as if I’m seconds from being snared completely by the magnetic pull of his body. What would happen if I let myself surrender? Would he retreat? I don’t want him to move away, so I reach out and grab a fistful of his shirt. Under my touch, Massimo’s chest rises and falls in quick succession. Faster than normal. His breath is fanning over my neck, and the faint touch of his stubble tingles against my chin.

Closing my eyes, I lean my cheek on his. “I didn’t know anyone could smell like peace.”

“Me neither.” The faintest of touches lands just below my ear, there one moment and gone the next. “But now I do.”

Lips. My heartbeat skyrockets. It was his lips.

“Good afternoon!” A high-pitched voice chirps somewhere behind me. “Can I help you with something?”

Massimo immediately takes a step back, breaking our contact. “Yes. We need cosmetics for sensitive skin.”

“Of course. We have products with organic ingredients there, on the left. Or, if you prefer vegan….”

I blindly follow after the clerk while trying to process what just happened, and Massimo trails a few steps behind. Was it a kiss? Or just an accidental touch?

“… and we have amazing foundations with one hundred percent coverage.” The lady stops at the makeup counter. “Would you like to try any?”

My stomach feels like it just landed on the floor. I tried every brand of foundation a few years ago, but my skin wouldn’t tolerate a single one. I ended up with an awful rash on my face, and Nera threatened to march me to the doctor unless I stopped using them.

“What’s foundation?” Massimo asks while the woman pulls out various sample bottles and lines them up on the counter next to a magnifying makeup mirror.

“It’s a liquid concealer, for the face,” I whisper.

“Yes,” the lady chirps, lifting one of the containers. “I think this shade would be the best match for you. It’s one of the most popular brands, dear. Complete coverage of imperfections is guaranteed, and it lasts the whole day. It’s even waterproof. Try it and see how pretty you’ll look.”

I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the tingling in my nose. My vision begins to blur, and I quickly blink away the tears. The sales lady seems nice and has that motherly air about her. I’m sure she means well, however, her thoughtless words sting nevertheless. Without realizing it, she’s making me feel like I’ll be ugly if I don’t wear the foundation. It’s not the first time someone’s acted like they have the right to give me their unsolicited advice. It happens far too often.

As I open my mouth to let her know I don’t want any of the products, Massimo grabs the bottle from the woman’s hand.

“So… this is used to fix problems?” he asks as he looks at the label. “And it works well?”

My gaze drops to the floor. He wants me to buy it?

“One hundred percent,” the woman responds.

“Good.” He unscrews the lid and thrusts the bottle back at the woman. “Drink it.”

My head snaps up. The clerk stares at Massimo, then laughs nervously. “Excuse me?”

“You’re going to drink it. Every single drop. Or, I’ll force it down your fucking throat.”

“Massimo.” I grab at his forearm. “No.”

The saleswoman isn’t smiling anymore. Her frantic eyes are flitting around the store while she clutches the container with shaking fingers.

“Don’t even think about calling security,” Massimo continues, his voice low and heavy with threat. “I’ll kick their asses and then make you drink this shit anyway.”

“Please, sir… I-I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Drink!”

“That’s enough!” I snap and grab the damn bottle of foundation from the woman’s grasp. The poor thing was already bringing it to her mouth. “I’m sorry. We’re leaving.”

I tug on Massimo to pull him away, but he isn’t budging and continues to glare at the sales clerk. The lady seems to be seconds from fainting, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually did. Having an enraged six-foot-seven man glaring at you like he’s ready to commit murder has to be terrifying.

“Massimo.” I yank on his arm again. “Please.”

Thank fuck he lets me drag him away this time. I keep my grip on his forearm until we’re out of the store.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say as we step inside the elevator. “It happens all the time. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Well, she won’t do it again.”

“It was unnecessary. And mean—you scared her.”

“You didn’t see the look on your face, Zahara. I did.” He punches the button for the parking level, then braces his palm on the wall right next to my head. “No one gets to hurt you like that.”

“She was just a clueless old lady.”

“Clueless old ladies included.” He leans forward and seizes my chin with his other hand. “School gossip. Fucking math problems. Thousands of ways how to make puff sleeves. For years, you wrote to me about every little thing but you never once mentioned your vitiligo. Why, angel?”

My breath catches in my lungs. His face is right there in front of me, his eyes searching mine. The urge to step back, to somehow run away and hide from his inspecting gaze overwhelms me. I know he’s already seen every discolored spot on my face. The huge pale patches around my eyes. Another on my forehead. Several small ones on the left side of my chin, right where his fingers are pressing. He’s not blind, even if he didn’t bring them up before now like so many others. Still, his sudden question leaves me feeling raw. And there’s nowhere for me to hide here. I’m caged between the elevator wall and Massimo’s body, so I have to endure his scrutiny.

“You,” Massimo rasps, tilting my chin up, “are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set my eyes on. And if anyone makes you doubt how fucking gorgeous you are, I’ll make them regret it for the rest of their lives.”

A loud ping signals the elevator’s arrival at the parking level. I remain rooted to the floor, my back plastered to the cool panel behind me. All I can do is gape at Massimo.

“You got that, angel?”

I nod.

“Good.”

He releases my chin and without saying another word, takes my hand and leads me out of the elevator.

He called me beautiful. No… gorgeous. Did he mean it? Or was it simply a white lie to make me feel better about myself? Some of his actions confuse me, give me whiplash with the mixed messages he’s sending. Like during that… moment in the store. I could have sworn he was going to kiss me before the sales associate interrupted us.

I steal a sideways look at Massimo, observing his harsh profile as I try to keep up with his long stride. The way his body moves—with measured, purposeful motion while he scans his surroundings like a predator on the hunt—is making my heartbeat erratic. He’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen. No, of course he wouldn’t have kissed me. I’m just imagining things I wish could be true.

We’re between two parked vehicles, heading toward Massimo’s Jag where it’s tucked away in the back row, when he abruptly drops my hand.

“Get down,” he whispers, simultaneously reaching behind his back without breaking his stride. “Now, Zahara.”

I immediately sink to a crouch.

Massimo twists to the left, gun in hand. A loud bang explodes in the wide space, followed by the unmistakable shattering of glass. Instinctively, I wrap my arms over my head.

More gunshots. A car alarm starts blaring somewhere, and then another. A bullet hits the white sedan on my right. It’s hard to determine where the gunfire is coming from, but I can see bullet casings fall to the ground around Massimo’s feet as he returns fire. I count three before the noise dies down.

“Let’s go.” Massimo grabs my hand and pulls me up. “Quickly.”

We cross the distance to his car at a run.

“Stay low,” he barks, shutting the passenger door after I get in and rushing around the hood to get behind the wheel.

The tires screech as he backs up and then turns toward the exit ramp. When we pull up to the garage gate, he slows down and opens his door, looking at something on the ground. I lean over to see what it is, only catching a pair of legs before Massimo slams the car door shut and hits the gas.

“Do you know who that was?” I ask.

“Yes. A guy from prison. There was some beef between us, but he got out a few years ago.”

“Must have been a hell of a spat to try to kill you now. How did he find you?”

“I’d like to know the answer to that question, too.” He reaches out and cups my cheek. “You okay, angel?”

His touch singes my skin, the heat of it spreading through me until it’s hard to breathe. Massimo’s eyes remain focused on the road as he strokes under my eye with his thumb. Being shot at is hardly a pleasant experience, although suddenly, it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Sure.”

As we make our way toward Massimo’s home, his focus keeps bouncing between the road up ahead and the rearview mirror. Is he worried someone is following us? I don’t think that’s it. He hasn’t looked back or glanced at the side mirrors with any wary intent. We’re stopped at a streetlight when his brows suddenly furrow and his gaze darts back to the mirror.

“Zip it, asshole,” he mumbles. “I’m sick of your constant bitching.”

I blink, confused. “What?”

“Sorry. I was just… Nothing. It’s nothing.” He shakes his head. “Fuck.”

For the rest of our drive, I can’t help but watch him closely. Massimo says nothing at all. Still, I’m worried about him. I’ve seen his temper. Never directed at me, of course, though with everyone else, he can’t seem to control it. He’s ruthless. Abrasive. Impatient. In itself, it’s rather strange, considering his meticulous and goal-oriented personality. His tact and ability to make calculated moves. If he fails to maintain his composure during the meeting with the Council, it will not end well. For them, but most importantly—for him.

Massimo

“Any guesses why that guy would want to off you?” Salvo asks as he pours two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler and passes it to me.

“He tried to steal from me on a few occasions. So I took it upon myself to relieve him of one of his possessions.”

“In prison? What was it? Money? Cigarettes?”All content © N/.ôvel/Dr/ama.Org.

I take a long sip and relish the burn down my throat. “His spleen.”

The leg of the chair I used for my handiwork caused significant gastrointestinal perforation. And that ensured the bastard would have to shit in a plastic bag for the rest of his life. So yeah, he had a grudge against me. Except there is no way he could have known I was out, much less be able to find me in a matter of days. Not without help. As soon as we got back to the house, I had Peppe check the car for bugs. He located a tracking device planted on the chassis.

“Well, I’m glad you made it out without a scratch. Not that I would have expected otherwise.” Salvo laughs and sips his own whiskey. “I got a call from our source earlier. Armando’s tox screen came back. Cyanide. They can’t pinpoint the time of death, other than to give an eight- to ten-hour window.”

So, Nera’s psycho husband was right after all, just as I suspected.

“The cameras at the Leone Villa didn’t pick anything up?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“I bet the fuck who ordered the hit on Nera is behind that, as well. Armando and he were likely working together, but when idiot got caught, he got silenced before he could talk.”

Salvo shakes his head. “Armando could be solely responsible for Nera’s attempted assassination. He was neck-deep in debt and taking money on the side. He probably got scared Nera was onto him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And then, he somehow managed to get his hands—his broken hands—on a cyanide pill and check out? No. Whoever painted the target on her back with that kill order is behind Armando’s death. The question is, who would want Nera dead?”

“You had her break the two-decade-long collaboration with the Albanian cartel. Dushku is a rather vindictive guy. It could be him.”

“Vindictive, yes. Stupid, not so much. Endri Dushku would gain nothing but problems from her demise. There are just too many things that don’t add up.”

“What do you mean?”

Amber liquid sparkles enchantingly as I rotate my glass. It’s almost the same warm shade as Zahara’s eyes. I wonder if she’s asleep already.

“Massimo? What things don’t add up?”

I meet Salvo’s gaze. How long have we known each other? Almost three decades? I remember breaking into my father’s liquor cabinet when we were barely teens, so that seems about right. Other than Zahara and Peppe, he’s the only other person I’ve trusted with my plans. And he went to great lengths to help me handle everything all these years. So, why the hell do I have this feeling that I shouldn’t share this particular line of thinking with him?

“Why Armando?” I lift my eyes off the tumbler in my hand. “The only two syndicates that have a grievance against us are the Albanians and Camorra. However, Dushku has his own people who handle his ‘issues.’ Camorra does, too. So why involve Armando in their plan?”

“To make sure we don’t suspect them?”

“Could be.” I throw back the remnants of my drink and lean over the dining room table. The surface is covered with the documents Salvo brought with him. “Let’s see what we have here.”

On the right are the records for our legitimate businesses: cash flow reports for casinos and strip clubs, contracts with all of our vendors, lease agreements for our commercial properties, the construction company purchase orders and inventory logs, bank statements, return on investment analyses, and tax filings.

The other side of the table is covered with accounts of all of our illegal shit: the monthly income spreadsheet for the past three years of backroom gambling at the Bay View Casino, the thick ledger of debtors with the amounts they owe as well as compound interest rates, and also, all the negotiated deals for money laundering and cocaine.

I reach for the revenue printouts for the last twelve months at two of our downtown strip clubs. We’re barely sitting in the black; the profits are sliding down. And the expenses have been rising over the past five years.

“We’re killing the strip club business,” I state. “Have our lawyers get everything ready to have both venues sold.”

Salvo gapes at me from across the table. “Tiziano will be livid.”

“I don’t give a fuck. And he better step up his efforts in his new role or he’ll lose his position as a capo. I’ll have no difficulty finding someone more capable to replace him.”

“New role?”

“Yes. He’ll be taking over the casino business from Brio. As it happens, Brio will be retiring and spending his remaining years at his summer home on Lake Massapoag, fishing.” That motherfucker has been messing with my commands for years and needs to be removed from the picture, pronto. Tiziano has always followed orders, he just happens to be a lazy shit.

“Massimo, I don’t think it’s wise to make such drastic changes as soon as you take over. Things are going quite fine as they are.”

“Which is exactly the problem. ‘Fine’ is not good enough.” I pin him with my gaze. “Or are you questioning my decisions?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. I need all the paperwork for the strip clubs ready and the sale contract drafted in the next two days. I’m flying to New York to finalize everything with the buyer at the end of this month.”

“So, it’s already a done deal?”

“Yes.”

“And who’s the buyer?”

“Salvatore Ajello,” I say.

A look of utter shock flashes across Salvo’s face. He obviously thought I’d been keeping him in the loop on all my plans. Yet, despite his loyalty to me over the years, I still prefer to keep delicate matters close to the vest. And starting a collab with another Cosa Nostra Family, allowing them an in within our territory, might be the most delicate one of all.

Historically, the reluctance to do business together is not based in mutual animosity or bad blood. It’s pride. And vanity. Stretching way back to when the first branches of Cosa Nostra took root outside of Italy. Since then, an unspoken competition has existed between the dons. A Family may allow another crime organization to occupy the same territory, perhaps even cooperate with them, only as long as it’s not another Cosa Nostra faction.

That’s where teaming up with Kiril and helping him rid his crew of duplicitous scum has proved beneficial. Just as I knew it would. The money laundering racket we set up was simply a bonus. The real prize is the connection. The Bulgarians have been collaborating with Ajello for a long while, and Kiril’s word bears a lot of weight in New York. Whatever he whispered into the don’s ear all those years ago must have piqued Ajello’s interest, setting us on this eventual path. It’s the only reason I can think of why Salvatore kept sending spies to watch Nera and case my turf. He must have been open to considering a potential deal.

“Jesus fuck, Massimo,” Salvo chokes out. “You’ve lost your goddamned mind.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I plan on informing the Council on Thursday, before the vote.”

“Then, you’re as good as done.”

“We’ll see.” I lean back in the chair and weave my fingers together behind my head. “Now, there’s one more thing we need to discuss. Your compensation for your loyalty. You get to remain as my underboss, of course. But what else do you want?”

Salvo watches me with narrowed eyes. He may have previously said he doesn’t expect anything in return, but he is a businessman. There’s no way he’ll let an opportunity such as this pass without taking advantage of it. Maybe he’ll ask to take on the casinos. That’d be fine by me. I’ll find some other role for Tiziano.

“The hand in marriage of a Cosa Nostra woman of my choosing,” he finally says.

Both my eyebrows shoot up. That I didn’t expect. “Take your pick. All I need is the name, and we’ll set the date and book the church.”

“Zara Veronese.”

My vision goes red, obscuring everything in the room. I had no idea I moved until my fist closes on a handful of Salvo’s shirt as I shove him against the wall.

“What did you say?” My voice is barely audible as I bring my face to his.

“You said I can choose,” he croaks, glaring back at me. “I’m the second-highest-ranking member of the Family. Who could be a better option to marry your sister than me?”

She’s not my fucking sister! I want to yell the words at the top of my lungs, but somehow, I make myself swallow them. He’s right. She’s not my blood, but is still my family member. I have no right to go apeshit because he’s interested in her. But regardless, I want to fucking obliterate him on the spot.

He can’t have her! the hypocritical asshole roars inside my head.

“Never,” I growl.

Salvo gets his palms on my chest and pushes me back. “Zara needs someone who can protect her. Especially with the shitstorm you intend to bring down on us all. Why the fuck didn’t you send her away with Nera?”

Because I can’t handle even the thought of being away from her. Because I want to be the one who protects her.

Yeah, but who’s going to protect her from you? From the man who’s been using her since she was a child? From her own stepbrother who has been plagued with dirty thoughts about her for the past three years?

Shut up, you dick!

The squatter in my mind has started to sing a different tune. He dogged me with his “she could have been hurt” speech the entire way home from the mall. And more than once, he nearly slipped and showed his own covetous nature. Yet, despite everything, he’s still adamant she deserves better than what I can give her.

“Zahara is none of your concern, and she never will be. Now, get the fuck out of my sight before you lose your spleen!” I snarl.

Salvo’s eyes flash with surprise. “Is there something between you and Zara? Is that why she’s living here, with you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. “Considering the situation, it is safer for her to stay here than to live alone.”

“You were just shot at!”

“And I handled it. No one can keep Zahara safe better than I can!”

Squinting, Salvo glares at me. “If something is going on between you two, it’ll cause a scandal of epic proportions. You know how the Family is where women are concerned. Judgmental whispers. Merciless gossip. Ill repute. The rumors and stigma will follow her for the rest of her life. They’ll crucify her, Massimo.”

I let go of his shirt and meet him eyeball-to-eyeball. “There’s nothing between me and my stepsister. Never was. Never will be. And if you even consider voicing that shit ever again, I’ll fucking end you.”

Salvo adjusts his tie and steps around me, heading toward the door. “Well, I’m glad that I was wrong. Even if she wasn’t your stepsister, I can’t think of a more wretched match. Just… look at you. Behaving like a savage beast on the loose.”

The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

I turn toward the windows that face the overgrown yard and wrap my hands around the back of my head. He’s right. Fucking right again. And he doesn’t even know the full extent of how fucked-up I actually am.

And where the hell did he get the idea of marrying Zahara? Strategically, it would be a good move for him, but is there more to it? Is there something between them?

Her life is her own. She can be with whomever she wants. Even Salvo. You have no right to feel jealous. Or angry. Betrayed. She isn’t yours and never could be.

“Changed your mind already?” I mumble. “A minute ago, your possessive ass was melting down that Salvo wanted to make her his wife.”

A lapse in judgment.

“Sure,” I snort, pushing away my voice of reason.

My vision snags on the reflection of the Spada coat of arms hanging on the opposite wall. A double-edged sword on a shield. My father had it commissioned when he became the don. I’ve never related to it more than I do now. Dark thoughts keep circling my mind. I can’t believe Salvo asked for Zahara’s hand in marriage. And my reaction? A total Neanderthal move.

Scumbag. I am a complete scumbag because, at the moment, I wish I could grab that sword and run it through my friend. Kill him for daring to lay claim to Zahara.

Fuck! I need so much damned therapy.

Salvo probably picked Zahara because it’s the most advantageous match since Nera is already married. He’d elevate his position in the Family, something Salvo has always had a boner for. I can understand his logic and ambition, yet I can’t get over him wanting someone who is mine. And that alone makes me want to kill him.

When I finally leave the dining room, it’s well after midnight. I take the file folders up to my bedroom on the third floor and then descend the stairs back down to the second.

The rapid tick-tick-tick of a sewing machine sounds from inside Zahara’s room. Shouldn’t she be asleep at this hour? I lean my back on the wall beside her door and listen to the rhythmic noise. What’s she working on? An underlining? Or maybe an invisible zipper? I smile. She hates inserting those.

I wait until everything falls silent, until after I’m sure she’s finally gone to bed. Then, I stagger to the antique wardrobe in the alcove at the end of the hallway and take out the pillow I stashed within. Laying it in front of Zahara’s door, I sprawl on the floor with my forehead all but pressed to the wooden surface. In the dark, as always, my thoughts turn to her.

My Zahara.

Does she sleep naked? Or does she prefer one of those delicate satin nighties? I imagine her in the nude. Curled up on one side of the bed. I imagine climbing under the sheets beside her. My arm would slide around her waist, and I’d pull her into my body until her back is plastered to my chest. And I’d bury my nose in her hair, inhale her jasmine scent. I want it filling my nostrils until the end of time.

My cock gets hard just from picturing her spooned by my body. Safe in my arms. Mine.

Never going to happen.

I roll onto my other side, turning my back to the door. I only last about five seconds in that position before I twist to face the barrier to Zahara’s room again.