Page 24 of Sweet Prison

In my last letter, I rattled on for two paragraphs about how Dad has been insisting on throwing a big-ass party for my eighteenth birthday, never dreaming that Massimo would send me a present. Is it a lamp? I hate lamps, but if Massimo got me one, I’ll keep it on my nightstand. The package seems large enough for it, and it’s rather heavy. By the time I finish lifting the lid, I’m buzzing like a live wire, and my hands are shaking.

It’s not a lamp.

Inside the box is a stack of at least ten neatly folded fabrics, each a variation of some sort of brown. My trembling fingers glide over the fine textiles, while my heart doubles its beat with every passing second. Chestnut, dark beige, and russet silk. Copper-colored lace with gold embroidered accents. Super thin cotton in a delicious mocha. Soft and flowy, perfect for summer clothes. How on earth did he get his hands on these?

At the bottom of the box, there is another note. A lone sentence on another unpretentious page.

I hope these cover every shade of brown, so now you can finally stop pestering me about the differences in each letter you write.

M.

I press my hand over my mouth and giggle. Ihavebeen pestering him. A lot. Teased him, even, for not being able to differentiate the various hues. I get a kick out of his clearly exasperated tone in his replies whenever I write about different shades of brown. Once, he asked me why I always use muted, drab colors, never yellows or oranges, for example. I ignored the question. Didn’t want to admit that the bland tints make me less noticeable in the crowd. Fewer people tend to stare at me. Stare at the discoloration around my eyes, more specifically. After all this time, all our letters, not once have I mentioned my skin condition to him. I guess I’m being vain. I want him to think of me as beautiful.

Does he? Think about me? Because I think about him all the time. I imagine our first meeting, in person, after he gets out. He’ll rush to me and scoop me into his arms. Tell me he’s been dreaming about me. Maybe… maybe he’ll even kiss me.

I shouldn’t be thinking about my stepbrother like that. It’s totally taboo, and I should be ashamed for having these scandalous thoughts bouncing around my mind. While we aren’t related by blood, the two of us together would be considered a sin in a conservative Cosa Nostra world. But I like to envision it anyway. And that’s not all I envision. I just…. can’t help myself.

There’ve been times when I’ve gone out with Nera and her friends, and the girls always bragged about their boyfriends. They’d tell stories of what they do with their men. More often than not, I’d end up shocked and red-faced. One time, Dania asked me if there was a guy I liked and offered to help hook us up. I said no, of course. All the boys I come in contact with just seem like stupid kids. I can’t even imagine kissing any of them, never mind anything more than that. But I fantasize about kissing Massimo. And I daydream of doing so, so much more.

My mind wanders to the rustic wooden chest tucked beneath my bed. There are at least a hundred letters inside, carefully hidden under a bunch of silk ribbons and scraps of fabric so the maids don’t stumble upon them by accident. Every night before I go to sleep, I pull out a few of the letters and read them. Even though I can remember each word for word. The one with the explanation of linear equations is my favorite.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and hold my hand over the flowy characters on the page, imagining Massimo speaking the words. What does his voice sound like? Deep and raspy? Or soft enough to glide over me like a smooth velvet? I don’t know, since letters have been our only communication all these years. What does he look like? I wonder, probably for the millionth time. I tried picturing him as a grown-up, an older version of the scowling boy I’d seen in photos. Imagined a man with dark, unruly hair falling across his eyes, but my mind could never make the leap. To this day, I have no idea what my stepbrother might actually look like, but I feel like I know him to his core. And if he really reads all the crap I’ve been writing in my letters, then he knows me better than anyone else, too. There is only one thing I never mentioned. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about my vitiligo and then know he was just another person who pitied me.

In the beginning, Massimo’s letters were infrequent and always way too brief. Curt, vague replies to my questions and more pointed inquiries about the things that were happening at home. With time, though, they got longer, and more personal. The five sentences became ten. Then twenty. Then, a full page. Although, a large part of each of his messages was still made up of carefully crafted directions for what he needed me to do, or what topic I should be paying more attention to when eavesdropping on my father’s meetings, the way he phased everything told me more about his interests, his abilities, andhow his mind works. With each letter, I’ve been amazed anew by how cunning he is. Metaphors, code words, hidden clues. If anyone stumbled upon one of his letters, I doubt they’d be able to discern his meaning. It would all seem like nothing more than random rambling or confusing facts. His words were chaos to everyone but me.

A smart, devious man. Never wavering from his ultimate goal.

The man I can’t stop thinking about.

His more extensive yet still rather cautious letters have become the warmth that sustains me. Because it is there, between the lines, where I’m learning about the real Massimo. From things he doesn’t actually say. Like his trouble sleeping because he’s always on alert, expecting someone to cut his throat when his guard is down. How much he misses nature—plants and trees—because all he gets to see are the same concrete walls every day. His affinity for a dry sense of humor. And the guilt he still feels about Elmo’s death. He blames himself, even though it was just an unfortunate turn of events, one he could not prevent. He tried, though, and now lives with the consequences of that night. A night I don’t remember at all, but I know the truth of what happened because I managed to drag the story out of Dad. I wish I could reassure Massimo. I wish I could take away his pain.

I wish… for something that is forbidden.

Chapter 8

Four months later

“You know nothing about him,” I say. “How can that be a healthy relationship?”

Nera rolls on her stomach and props her hands under her chin, her eyes sparkling like little gems, the same as they do whenever she speaks about her “stalker.” It’s plain as day that she’s in love with him. In love with a man whose name she doesn’t even know, and they’ve been seeing each other for almost a year.

She stumbled upon him—wounded and bleeding in a dark alley—and took him to the vet clinic where she works to patch him up. When she told me what she had done, I nearly lost my everloving shit. Alone, with a man who had been shot! In the middle of the night! She must have been out of her mind. He could have been a total psycho. But they’ve been meeting up ever since.

At first, I thought it was just a simple crush that would pass as quickly as it started. As the months dragged on, it became obvious that wasn’t the case. I don’t recall seeing Nera so happy before, and I’m truly not sure if I should be glad for her or if I should worry.

“Have you ever met someone you can talk to about all the things you can’t discuss with anyone else?” my sister asks fromher spot on my bed. “Even though you don’t know much about them?”

Pain shoots through my thumb as I stab myself with the tip of my needle. A small drop of blood soaks into the beige silk, and I’m nearly hyperventilating, alarmed that she somehow knows my secret. But when I glance up, I see her staring at the ceiling with a dreamy look in her eyes. It was just a rhetorical question, thank God.

“Maybe,” I answer, without actually intending to.

“What?” Nera abruptly shoots up in bed. “Who?”

I quickly drop my gaze back to the fabric in my hands. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“You know you can tell me anything, Zara.”

Guilt threatens to consume me. We’ve never had secrets between us. Until Massimo. I’m not in any way morally opposed to spying for him, but I do feel bad for keeping my activities from Nera. On the other hand, Massimo has become much more to me than a stepbrother. And because my sister knows me so well, I’m afraid—terrified, actually—that it won’t take her long to realize the truth. And condemn me for it.

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