Page 96 of Sweet Prison

“It is. It’s just…” I sigh. “Shit. I know it sounds stupid. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“You figure he thinks of you as weak?”

“Not exactly. Maybe just ‘not strong enough.’ That’s probably a more accurate assessment.” The sash I’m ironing almost tears off the blouse from how hard I tug on it. “I’m not a fucking porcelain teacup!”

“We’re talking about Don Spada, aren’t we?”

“Who else?” A sad laugh escapes me. “He’s absolutely certain no one knows about us.”

“Hmm. He stopped sleeping at your bedroom door, but his bed remains untouched. So, I drew my own conclusions.”

“Aren’t you going to comment on how outrageous it is that I’ve been sleeping with my stepbrother?”

“Well… it’s… it isn’t something that’s common, Miss Zara. Family is sacred.” She looks down at the towels in her hands. “But… I guess, love doesn’t care about social rules. One can’t simply command their heart. I also know you’ve been in love with him for quite some time. And that man can’t take his eyes off you whenever you’re near. The other day, when he was chastising me for allowing you to leave without protection when you went to see your sister, I thought he was going to have an aneurysm.”

“Yeah. He yelled quite a lot.”

“At you? But… he never does that. He’s so different around you. Calm and… more normal.”

“I know.” I bite my lower lip. “Would you think I’m nuts if I confess that I love his craziness?”

“Mm-hmm. A little?” She giggles. “When Don Spada is in one of his fits, all I want to do is run and hide. I think most people feel the same way because, y’know, they think he’s going to off them.”

“That’s a fair concern.”

I set the iron aside and lift the blouse to inspect it. Dark purple, nearly black. High neckline. Long sleeves, with beautiful lace at the cuffs—intricate material that will cover my hands when it cascades down. I was planning to match it with black tailored pants for the party at Brio’s tonight. My typical attire.

Except, how can I expect to be seen as strong when I’ve never been brave enough to attend a Family gathering even slightly less than fully covered? I keep assuring Massimo that I don’t care what people will think of me if they find out about our relationship, but I’ve always feared the brunt of their inquisitive eyes.

I lower my customary blouse and meet Iris’s gaze. “Massimo is in his office with Tiziano. Could you please tell him that I need… more time? I’ll get ready and have Peppe drive me over to Brio’s when I’m done.”

“Um… I don’t think he’ll leave without you.”

“Make sure he does.”

When the bedroom door shuts after she exits, I throw the shirt back on the ironing board. Spinning around, I head toward my walk-in closet. Most of my elegant clothes are hanging there—sorted by colors, spanning from dark brown to… black. I sigh, glancing at the very few outliers that I made in lighter shades bunched to the side. And at the far end of the rod, hangs a long, gray cloth garment bag. My hand shakes ever so slightly as I lower the zipper, revealing the length of crimson-red silk. The dress I was working on when Salvo paid me that decidedly unpleasant visit and thought I was making something for my sister.

As I carry the dress and lay it on my bed, my stomach churns. But it’s not anxiety that’s twisting it up in knots. It’s excitement. I never imagined that I would even contemplate wearing it in public, much less feeling determined as I do now to go through with it.

I might have been a delicate, too-easily-broken fine china cup once.

But not anymore.

And it’s time I show everyone. Most importantly—myself.

“Why the fuck is it taking so long?” I bark into the phone. “If Zahara doesn’t want to attend, I’ll tell everyone to fuck off and head back home.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure she wants to attend,” Peppe drones on the other end of the line. “We’re ten minutes out.”

“How many men do you have with you?”

“Six. Two in the car ahead of us, and four in another, bringing up the rear. She’ll arrive safely.”

“Good.” I cut the call and look around the huge hall brimming with people. There are over two hundred guests. I actually don’t know—or care—what the fuck Brio is celebrating, but this party has become his “unofficial” send-off. Currently, only the Council is aware of his forced “early retirement,” but soon enough, I’ll make sure everyone in the Family hears the news.

Picking up a glass of wine from a nearby table, I head across the room, checking out the space. I haven’t been at Brio’s in over twenty years, and back then, his digs were the last thing on my mind. Zahara, however, prefers to stay on the fringe at events like this. We could make ourselves comfortable by the exit to the hallway, where it’s less crowded. Or, if she’d rather, we could just hang around near the glass doors that lead to the garden.

I still don’t understand why she insisted we must attend tonight. I hate Family celebrations, and she knows that. But more than that, this damn party is a colossal security risk. Imade sure to have thirty of my most reliable men positioned around the venue. They all have very clear orders—protect Zahara and watch out for any potential threats. This affair has been designated as a ‘weapons-free environment,’ except I honestly don’t give a shit about Brio’s delicate sensibilities or his desire to maintain a bullet-free home. Both of my Glocks are tucked into the holster under my suit jacket.

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