Page 98 of Sweet Prison

“Just tell him to shut up.”

A laugh builds inside my chest.You heard the lady.Be gone,I tell my other self.

My fingers edge the silky smoothness of Zahara’s waistline, and then I let my palm curve over her perfect ass, giving it a light squeeze.

A hush envelops the room again, with only the soulful crooning of the jazz singer somewhere on our right defying the collective deep-held breath. It lasts barely a moment before murmurs and insistent whispers explode from every direction. Fucking vultures. They just can’t help themselves.

Not that I’m surprised. The Cosa Nostra views on male-female interactions are very traditional. There’s no way a well-bred man would dare lay his hand on a woman’s ass without the two being in an official relationship—married or, at least,engaged. The way I’m keeping Zahara pressed to my side would have been more than enough to spark a slew of assumptions that there’s something between us. My hand on her ass has blasted those assumptions into a categorical certainty.

I can acutely feel everybody’s eyes focused on my hand. The furious muttering gradually becomes louder. It wasn’t a conscious act, sliding my hand down to grab Zahara’s behind. But keeping it there as we walk across the room, that definitely is. I’m staking my claim. Declaring her as mine—finally. It’s a soundless howl that’s deafening inside these walls.

I steal a glance at Zahara, worried about her reaction now that the cat is out of the bag. Remarkably, she doesn’t seem perturbed… much. Her spine remains straight, and she walks with her head held high. I know her, though. I see the nerves she’s trying to hide.

“Want me to kill them?” I ask as we continue traversing among the buzzards.

A playful smirk pulls at her lips. “No. But thank you for the offer.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. But I wish they would just stop talking. It feels as if we’ve landed in a damn beehive.”

“That can be arranged.”

Changing our course, I guide her to the singer, who’s been valiantly trying to be heard over the swarm of noise. Grabbing the microphone from the woman’s hand, I tuck Zahara closer to my side while my palm remains firmly planted on her ass cheek. I turn toward the crowd, and they immediately zip their mouths shut, their shocked gazes all zeroing in on me.

“Good.” The word ricochets throughout the room. “If I notice anyone, with the exception of the lovely band behind me,using their vocal cords tonight, said vocal cords will be forcefully removed from the throats they currently inhabit. Am I making myself clear?”

A slew of shocked gasps is my only reply. Lots of dumbfounded blinks, though. But no actual words are being uttered.

“I asked, AM I MAKING MYSELF CLEAR?” I roar.

All heads move up and down like a tragic display of bobbleheads. They stay mute as fuck, just continue to gape at me and Zahara.

“And censor your goddamned expressions, because I won’t take kindly to any that I don’t like,” I add. “You’ll keep your disdainful and disapproving stares in check, or you’ll bear the consequences and my wrath. Consider yourselves warned.”

More nods.

“Perfect. Carry on.” I throw the mic back to the singer, then glance at Zahara, who’s watching me through narrowed eyes.

“You can’t forbid people to talk, Massimo.”

“No?” I drag my knuckles along the delicate line of her chin. “Well, I just did.”

“You’re mollycoddling me again.”

“I love coddling you, angel. I can’t stand the thought that those bastards might say something that upsets you, that they might hurt you with their cruel words. There’s no coming back from this now, Zahara. You understand that, right?”

“I do. But what I need you to understand, is that I can handle this. I’m not the meek, frightened girl I once was. Unkind words and reproachful stares don’t bother me anymore, and I need everyone to realize that. Including you.”

I watch her—so beautiful and fierce—while my heart swells inside its cage like it’s trying to reach her. Yes, she is strong.Much stronger than I previously believed. I get it now, though. But if she needs this to affirm to herself and everyone else that she’s unshakable, I’ll grant her wish.

I stretch my hand toward the singer, who’s standing utterly stone-still and in absolute silence. “Give that back.”

When she passes me the mic, I wrap my arm around Zahara’s waist and turn to face the stunned crowd.

“You are allowed to speak.” My voice once again carries across the room. The tone is as insouciant as I can make it, but I let my gaze slide over and pause on as many people gawking at us as I can, clearly telegraphing the aftermath should the subject of their flapping traps piss me off. A swift yet painful death.

As expected, the low whispers restart the moment the microphone is back in the singer’s grip.

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