Page 27 of Sweet Prison

“I tried calling you.” Her voice is hollow and her gaze unfocused. “You… you weren’t answering your phone.”

“What happened? Is that… blood? Nera, oh my God, are you alright?”

“It must have been a hitman. I tried… I tried waking him but...”

“What? Who?” I cry out.

Her red-rimmed eyes meet mine. “Dad.”

No.I reel back as if she kicked me in the chest.No.He’s okay. He has to be. We have our differences, Dad and I, but that doesn’t change the fact that I love him.He’ll be okay.

“How badly is he hurt? Where did…? Which hospital?” My breath leaves my lungs in short bursts, and I can’t seem to form full sentences. Why is she just standing there? We need to be with Dad.

“Zara…” Nera stretches her hand toward me but I swat it away.

“No,” I plead. Then, clutching the front of her bloody dress, I bury my face in her neck. “Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it.”

“Dad’s gone, Zara.”

Chapter 9

Nuncio Veronese’s Funeral, Boston

(Zahara, age 18; Massimo, age 35)

Glaring stares.

Hushed whispers.

Dozens of eyes laser into my back as I stride through the gathered crowd toward the white casket at the graveside. Fucking vultures. They might be standing still, but I feel like they’re closing in on me. Every nerve, every atom within me is oscillating on high alert. At least in prison, you know who your enemies are, but here, amid the crème de la crème of the Italian Mafia, all bets are off. Some of the faces I don’t recognize, but the majority of those present, I remember.

There are more than three hundred people here. The higher-ups are all gathered close to the casket. Men in their Sunday best and women flashing extravagant fucking jewelry. From their attire, you’d think they were at a gala, not a goddamned funeral. Typical. Birthdays and funerals have always been the most elaborately commemorated events in Cosa Nostra. The majority of the foot soldiers stand at the back. The elite do not mingle with plebs; they ignore the men who actually do all the heavy lifting for the Family. It wasn’t like that when my father was the don. And it sure as hell won’t be once I’m back.

Low murmurs follow in my wake as the mourners split, letting me pass while my two guards trail a step behind me. I catch my name whispered a handful of times. Most of the people, however, just stare at my prison uniform and cuffed hands in confusion. With their self-centered lives, fifteen years is apparently enough time to wipe a person from their memories.

The warm, midmorning sun is shining down on the casket spray, wreaths, and floor bouquets set up around the grave site. The bulk of the floral arrangements are white, contrasting with the wall of dark attire surrounding the deceased. It’s a beautiful day for a funeral. Unlike the day they laid my mother to rest. I heard it rained, but I was confined to the hole for causing a riot in the chow hall. The day before the funeral, I admittedly lost my shit because the assfucker of a warden denied my request to attend her service.

There’s no sadness, no grief, no regret that haunts me as I get closer to the casket. Nuncio never liked me, and I most certainly never liked him. He was simply a means to an end—one of many—a cog that was supposed to help me reach my goal. That’s all he was to me. All anyone ever is.

I stop at the edge of the burial plot and let my eyes roam over the people clustered close by. There is no missing Batista Leone; he’s off to the side—face stoic and spine ramrod-straight. Salvo is just behind him, wedged between Tiziano and Brio. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a barely perceptible nod. I return it and then take in the rest of the crowd. Several capos and other members of the Family stand with their heads respectfully bowed. Adriano Ruffo is among them, but he’s chosen a position a bit further back. Next to him is a short-haired blonde, wearing an obscenely short dress and an elaborate net-like black veil. It must be his wife. But directly across from me, on the other side of the raised casket, are the tops of two women’s heads. Theenormous flower arrangement is blocking my view of them, but they must be my stepsisters. I take a step to the right so I have a less obstructed sight line.

I recognize Nera right away. She was five the last time I saw her, but with her almond-shaped eyes and soft cheeks, there is no mistaking the girl I often caught sneaking into the kitchen to get cookies. It was all so long ago—in another lifetime.

My gaze shifts to the woman on the left.

And then… and then, I stare.

Like everyone else, she’s dressed in black, but something about her captures all of my attention. My eyes travel down her body. She’s wearing an elegant blouse with long lacy sleeves that gather at her wrists, and tight tailored pants that accentuate her hourglass figure. The tips of black stilettos peek from beneath the hem of her pants. I look back up, taking in her light-brown hair, partially swept into an updo at her nape while the rest of her locks cascade around her face in soft shiny waves.

That’s Zahara,the voice in my head whispers.

Don’t be ridiculous.I give him a mental dope slap.

It’s her.

No—this beautiful, sophisticated young woman can’t be my little spy. She must be one of Nera’s friends, offering her support while my stepsister is grieving. This can’t be Zahara, can it? All this time, I’ve pictured her as a gangly teen.

Suddenly, she lifts her head and we lock eyes. A perfect storm explodes inside my mind. Air catches in my lungs, but the damn things won’t compress to let it out.

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