Page 13 of Sweet Prison

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 mastermindbehind 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 toLa 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 incrementallevels in love. No middle ground. You either love someone and are willing to do anything for them. Or you don’t love them.

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