Page 7 of Sweet Prison

I shut my door, then lean back upon its solid surface and take a deep breath. Excitement sparkles in my chest, and my hands shake as I tear the envelope open. Has Massimo actually written back? What might he have said? I wonder if he’s asked how we’re all doing. Or, maybe, he’s told me what his life in prison is like.

When I finally manage to pull the folded pages out, I smooth out the creases while my eyes roam over the contents. Two pages! Both sides of each sheet are filled with graphs and formulas, and random notes in neat male handwriting are squeezed in between.

It takes me a full minute to realize what I’m looking at.

An overview of linear equations—concise explanations of particular aspects, like what they are and how they work, as well as examples.

A small smile pulls at my lips. Last week, in my letter to Massimo, among relaying random everyday nonsense, I mentioned that I was learning about linear equations in my Algebra class. And that, for the life of me, I couldn’t wrap my head around the concept.

I guess he’s been reading my letters after all.

Maximum security correctional institution, Boston suburb

“Spada. You’ve got mail.”

I lift my head, looking at the correctional officer crossing the yard toward me.

“Take a walk,” I tell my fellow con who’s sitting behind me on the weight-lifting bench.

The buzzing of the tattoo gun on my left shoulder blade stops, and a moment later, I hear the artist scuttle away. He’s a rather skittish guy, but he knows his shit.

Reaching out, I take the envelope from the CO’s extended hand. “How’s your trouble-making cousin doing, Sam?”

“Good. He’s still in rehab, but should be out next week.” The guard throws a look over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispers once his attention returns to me.

“Just make sure he stays away from the Triad’s territory when he gets released. The Chinese were very eager to teach him a lesson for dealing on their turf.”

“I know. Thanks for putting in a good word for him, Mr. Spada.”

I nod. “You made sure no one has messed with my mail?”

“Of course. Everyone knows your stuff is off-limits. Do you need anything else?”

“No. You’re free to go, Sam.”

I wait for the CO to leave before I rip open the envelope and pull out the folded paper. Another letter from my little stepsister. I’d never admit it to anyone, but receiving her mail has brought unexpected amusement into the doldrums of my present life, even though, most of the time, they contain nothing more than the ramblings of a teenage girl.

Until a few days ago, I never bothered replying. I had more important things to handle than discussing the latest movies I hadn’t seen or my stepsister’s sewing patterns. And I couldn’t care less what the seam allowances were for. I was too busy making and strengthening connections with mob factions through the people incarcerated with me, dodging sneak attacks inside the maximum security pen, and trying not to get killed whenever my back was turned or I closed my eyes for a fucking minute.

Last week, however, half of her damn letter was a tirade about linear equations. The next thing I knew, I was wondering why I’d spent two hours of my time writing out explanations of math problems for my little nuisance. It’s been years, but I still remembered that shit. Learning has always come easy to me, regardless of the subject. My high school guidance counseloreven tried to convince my father that I should make Harvard Law my postgrad goal. I laughed my ass off when I heard that.

It appears that sewing is once again the main topic of my stepsister’s rhetoric because there is almost an entire page on some shit calledbias bindingandbound seams. I shake my head as I try to process that crap.

As I continue reading, the next paragraph catches more of my attention. After citing some of the guests at Nuncio’s barbecue party and vividly describing their outfits, Zahara has included quite a few remarks about things she overheard. One in particular spikes my interest—a meeting between Nuncio and a real estate agent. A meeting that Nuncio didn’t mention when he came to see me last Thursday.

I tap the edge of the letter with the tip of my finger as I ponder that fact. The secret calls with Salvo provide me the info I need on matters within Cosa Nostra as well as updates on business dealings, but he’s not close enough to the don to inform me of the things happening inside Nuncio’s house. Peppe’s information is more valuable on that front, but as a driver, his access is limited to the staff quarters and the kitchen. He can’t tell me what’s happening inside the main part of the house or during the parties Nuncio loves to throw so much. That kind of information would be very,veryvaluable, but there has never been a way to obtain it.

I look at the letter again. Maybe now there is. I just need to focus my stepsister’s written prattle in a more useful direction.

Whatever scruples and morality I had before I got locked up have been obliterated in this fucking hellhole. Using an innocent girl as an asset to further my designs doesn’t bother me in the least. It could work. I’ll just need to give her subtle guidance on the type of information she should include in her letters.Anything even remotely connected to my less-than-legal affairs needs to stay out of our correspondence.

I refocus on the letter to read the last paragraph.

It’s just a couple of sentences about some guy named Kenneth, a senior in her school. There are no specifics about what he did, and she sounds rather unbothered, her words delivered without even the level of teenage dramatics inspired by linear equations, but I can read her distress between the lines.

After two years of her letters, I’ve gotten familiar with the quirks of her mind. I might not know what my stepsister looks like, not having seen her since she was a toddler, but I have a really good idea of how she thinks. She may have tried to tell me that whatever happened was “not a big deal,” but I’m sure-as-shit convinced that it was. And regardless of the lack of familial feelings toward her, I won’t allow anyone to come after one of mine.

Folding the letter up, I slide it into my pocket, then set off across the yard toward a group of inmates playing cards at a concrete slab.

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