Page 104 of Sweet Prison

An investment opportunity involving Manhattan properties, where real estate prices have surpassed the previous all-time high after a volatile decade, is a money launderer’s wet dream. The projected profits from the residential construction project I’m currently reviewing is nearly seventy million dollars. In terms of initial financing, I can pump at least a third of what I expect to earn to turn our dirty money into cold hardcleancash.

“It’s acceptable.” I close the laptop and slide it across the table toward the man sitting on the other side. “When are you planning to break ground?”

“Next spring, most likely. We anticipate a three-month lead-in will be needed to finalize planning and design, and to get all the legal and permit issues handled.” Arturo leans back on the white leather sofa and props an ankle on the opposite knee.

As far as I know, in addition to being the New York underboss, Arturo DeVille also handles Ajello’s drug operation. Based on his looks, however, I find it really hard to believe. Drug deals are a messy business, often taking place in remote, dirty locations. Weapons and blood are usually involved. Ajello’s right-hand man looks like a fucking fashion model, one who wouldn’t know what to do if a gun was handed to him.

Dark hair, perfectly slicked back as if he wasted an hour in front of the mirror just to tame every single strand. A custom-made black suit that shows not a single crease on it. The immaculately pressed black shirt underneath, with the two top buttons undone, offers a glimpse of the gold chain around his tanned neck. He’s wearing a fucking cross, like a good Catholic boy. And on his left wrist, a shiny gold Rolex.

“If there’s nothing else that we need to discuss, Don Spada, I’ll have our lawyer prepare the paperwork. My boss will bring the contract with him when he visits Boston to inspect the venues we’re buying.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I assumed that you, as his underboss, would handle all the bureaucratic crap.”

“Most times, that would be true. In this particular case, however, Don Ajello will take care of it personally. Take it as a statement of good faith, if you will.” A waiter approaches to drop off a new round of drinks, but Arturo doesn’t even spare him a glance and continues, “This is the first time two Cosa Nostra Families are entering into a strategic alliance of this kind.”

I wait for the server to depart before leaning closer. “I don’t think it’s wise to discuss such delicate matters in front of outsiders, DeVille.”

“Normally, I would agree. But as it happens, this place is considered neutral territory, and the staff here are sworn to secrecy. If anyone even breathes wrong, the motherfucker whoowns this joint would gut them with a spoon or some shit like that.”

“You’re not a fan of the owner, I take it?”

Arturo’s face darkens. “Drago Popov. He’s my brother-in-law.”

“I didn’t know you were married. Did you get hitched to Drago’s sister recently?”

“God forbid.” Arturo practically swipes his tumbler off the glass-top table and throws the whiskey back, swallowing it in one gulp. “That hellion should be locked up somewhere, and the key lost where no one can find it. I’ve never met a more infuriating female in my life. We crossed paths just once, at my sister’s wedding, and the nutcase threw a jug of punch at me. And that was after she tried to slice my head off with a flying serving tray.”

His phone starts ringing on the table, Ajello’s name lighting up the screen. Their conversation is brief, but DeVille’s face shows more and more agitation by the time he hangs up.

“Duty calls.” He stands and offers me his hand. “Looking forward to doing business with you.”

Once Arturo leaves, I finish my drink and then take out my phone to call Zahara. The private plane is on standby to take me back to Boston, so I should be home in time for dinner. And dessert.

She doesn’t pick up, which isn’t that uncommon, since her phone often ends up left forgotten on the nightstand.

I try again as I’m leaving the club, and three more times in the cab while heading to the private airport in Jersey. With each missed call, heaviness settles like a boulder in my stomach. Something is wrong.

You’re getting paranoid again,the snarky voice inside my head comments.She’s probably fiddling with those puff sleeves on the new blouse.

“They are calledlantern sleeves,” I correct. That gets me a strange look from the taxi driver.

Taking my phone out again, this time, I call Iris. She and Zahara are often hanging out together.

“Zahara isn’t answering her phone,” I snap the moment the line connects.

“Oh. She must have forgotten to take it with her, Don Spada.”

“What?” The bad feeling in my gut intensifies. “Where did she go?”

“Mr. Canali dropped by about half an hour ago. They left in his car. Could be that she needed to take final measurements for Mrs. Canali’s latest dress order, because I saw Miss Zara had a sewing pouch with her.”

“Who went with her?”

“Peppe. He followed them in his vehicle.”

I hang up on her and dial Peppe, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Fuck!

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