Page 87 of Sweet Prison

“I don’t think they’ll be necessary.” I slip my hands into my pants pockets and continue my casual stride.

“Can’t believe that’s really you, Spada,” Efisio exclaims around a forkful of pasta. “I remember when you were just a boy, and your father’s soldiers dragged your skinny ass along with them. You’ve changed, kid.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Pulling out one of the unoccupied chairs, I take a seat across from Efisio, making sure I have a direct line of fire at both him and his second.

“It’s unfortunate our collab in your casinos was cut short.” He reaches for a bottle of fifteen-year-old Sauvignon Blanc, which seems totally out of place here, and fills his glass. “I was looking forward to sharing the profits.”

“We’ve paid out close to double Camorra’s original investment. I’d say you walked away with quite a substantial profit from that endeavor, especially considering the length of the term.”

“I guess we did. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Spada? Do you need another influx of cash? We’d be happy to… lend a helping hand at… your strip clubs.”

I quickly glance at Efisio’s men, some of whom are leaning on the remnants of an old Cadillac right next to the office building. They seem relaxed, but there’s no missing the fact that they are still clutching their rifles in front of them. To make sure I have unimpeded access to my gun tucked into my waistband, I unbutton my jacket and lean back in my chair.

“You have one week to wrap up your business in Boston and get out of town, Efisio.”

The older man raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Get a load of this fuckin’ guy. You must have had your head scrambled worse than I thought in lockup.”

I grit my teeth to stop myself from sending a bullet right into his ugly mug.

“You’ll also cease all your dealings with the Bulgarians,” I continue. “Kiril and I have already had a chat about that.”

“Yah no, you filthy bastard!” Efisio snarls, leaning over the table.

The sound of guns and rifles being cocked ricochets all around us and in the next moment, nearly a dozen barrels are pointed in our direction. One of Efisio’s guys is aiming at me, but the rest have leveled their sights on my men. My soldiers, including Peppe, however, are all targeting Efisio. Just as they were instructed to do.

The shrill sound of a ringing phone breaks the precarious silence, interrupting the grunts and heavy breathing that have been the only sounds up to this point.

“I advise you to answer that call,” I say.

Efisio snorts, then reaches inside his jacket, never once moving his gun off me. When he takes a look at the screen, his face immediately drains of color. His eyes snap to mine.

“Mirabella?” he rasps into the phone. “Are you alright?”

I don’t hear the other side of the conversation, but I see the old man’s face paling even more.

“Everything will be fine. Just do as they tell you and you’ll be okay.” He cuts the line and glares at me with a mix of rage and terror in his eyes. “You motherfucker! She’s just a child.”

“Your niece is twenty. The same age as my stepsister was when your cousin Alvino kidnapped her with the intent of forcing her to marry him. She was almost killed in the clusterfuck that ensued.”

“That was years ago! And I had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t give the slightest fuck, Efisio. Camorra dared to come at mine. I do the same, only worse. However, if you agree to leave Boston peacefully, not a hair will be harmed on the girl. You don’t, and I kill her.Capisci?”

“You wouldn’t harm an innocent girl. Alvino was a deranged asshole, but you’re not that far gone, Spada.”

I brace my elbows on the table and lean forward, getting in his face. “You sure about that?”

His wide eyes bore into mine, searching. And I let him see the truth.

“You sick fuck,” he chokes out, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw is liable to shatter.

I stand up and straighten my jacket. “I’m glad we’ve sorted this all out. I expect you and every member of your clan gone by noon, next Thursday. Do I have your word?”

“Yeah. Now call your men and tell them to let my niece go.”

I take out my phone and type a short text. A minute later, a photo arrives—an image of the girl running through a gate toward a two-story house. Lifting the phone, I turn it around to show Efisio the screen. “There. Done.”

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