Sweet Prison: An Age Gap Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 10)
Sweet Prison: Chapter 3

Eleven years later

(Zahara, age 14)

“Hey, check it out! Isn’t that our resident leper girl?”

Laughter rings out around me. I drop my chin even lower and gripping the stack of books in my arms, hasten my steps. The sickening tingle at the back of my neck ratchets up as I squeeze between the students in the hallway and their judgmental stares.

I should be used to all of this by now. Teasing. Mean, spiteful name-calling. It goes way back to elementary school. The questions came first. What happened to you? Does it hurt? I tried explaining that it’s just how my skin looks and it’s completely normal, exactly as my mom told me to. Regardless, kids typically stayed clear of me—no one wanted to play with me, and some didn’t even want to look in my direction.

Once I started high school, it got worse. The days of peaceful shunning were no more. Gross. That looks awful. Or, the ever-present… Don’t touch me. I don’t wanna catch what you got. There was no point in explaining that vitiligo is not contagious. They didn’t really care, anyway. And since I always tried to ignore them instead of fighting back, I was an easy target for their insecurities. So they humiliate me. Cause me pain. Both physically and with their words.

Oddly enough, the bullying doesn’t really bother me anymore… not much, at least. It’s the looks of pity I can’t stand. So I try to remain as invisible as possible. Do my best not to attract any unwanted attention. Too bad that strategy doesn’t work on Kenneth fricking Harris.

“Brown looks good on you, lep.” A mocking smile pulls at Kenneth’s lips. He halts right in front of me, blocking my way to the school’s main entrance, and plants his hands on his hips. “But I think you must have forgotten to check today’s forecast. You gotta be cooking inside that mesh-looking thing. Or is it a mosquito net?”

Another round of laughter echoes through the hallway.

“Let me pass, please,” I mumble, staring at the tips of my shoes.

“Of course.” He takes a step to the side.

Holding my breath, I dash past him, but as I do, Kenneth yanks on one of my sleeves. The unmistakable sound of tearing fabric follows as the fine threads break.

Tears gather at the corners of my eyes while I stare at the ruined lace in Kenneth’s meaty fist. I spent days working on this blouse, modifying the original pattern to make the sleeves long enough to cover my hands. Hours of labor that made my back and fingers ache, and this jerk cared nothing about it.

“Sorry, lep.” Chuckling, he throws the tattered material to the floor. “But hey, look on the bright side. It’s more suitable for the weather now.”

There are over a dozen people around us—all of them the jerkface’s cronies—and I can feel each of their gazes on my exposed arm. Gawking at the discoloration on my elbow, my forearm, my wrist. The urge to gouge everyone’s eyes out with my bare hands, to scream in their faces to stop fucking gaping, surges inside me.

I don’t.

I never do.

Biting my lower lip to keep it from quivering, I scoop the scrap of lace off the floor. Clutching it in my hand so hard my nails pierce my palm, I turn and head down the hallway. I can’t make a scene, or my father will hear about it. Then he’d probably transfer me to another prestigious school, one filled with even more stuck-up creeps than this one, or maybe just decide to have me homeschooled. I can still hear his hushed words from his conversation with his underboss last week: My poor little Zara, I’m so worried about her. She always replaces it hard to handle stressful situations.

Sometimes, I wish I could tell him the truth. That I’ve imagined him showing up at my school, raising hell, and yelling at everyone who has ever hurt me. Or beating the shit out of that asshole, Kenneth. Too bad something like that would never happen. My father might be the boss of Cosa Nostra in Boston, but he would never cause a fuss because of me. The sons and daughters of his business associates attend this school, and the don would never risk jeopardizing lucrative partnerships simply because some boy “upset” his antisocial, skittish child.

Image is everything within La Famiglia, and Nuncio Veronese would never stoop to anything so clearly beneath him. It would simply be easier to transfer me to another school, just as he’d done before. And then, I would feel like an even bigger failure.

I’m hurrying across the schoolyard toward the west side of campus when a hand brushes my arm, and I jump.

“Hey, Zara! Want to come to Dania’s to watch a movie?”

I force a small smile and look up at my sister. “No. I… I have to study.”

“You sure?” Nera asks. “We could— Oh my God, what happened to your shirt?”

“My sleeve got caught on a door handle,” I lie.

“Oh?” Her eyes narrow at my ruined blouse. “Is someone bothering you again?”

“Of course not. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. That’s all.”

When I was nine, I made the mistake of confessing to my sister about the teasing I received at school. I told her that a boy from her grade called me a bunch of names. Despite being a tiny eleven-year-old, Nera tracked my bully down during recess and fought him. She earned a bruise on her chin and two weeks of detention. And when we got home, Dad grounded her for “despicable behavior unbecoming of our pedigree” and “bringing shame to the Veronese name.”

I will never again put my sister in a position to get in trouble because she feels the need to defend me, just because I’m too much of a chicken to stand up for myself. Thank God most of her classes are in a separate building this year. Now she can’t witness the bulk of my encounters with Kenneth.

“You guys have fun. I’ll see you tonight.” I squeeze Nera’s hand and head toward the car waiting for me by the campus gates. It’s parked just behind the big SUV belonging to Hannah’s dad, and I spot my friend getting into the back of it while giving me a brief wave. I’m glad she’s rushing off to her dance class right now and doesn’t have time to stop and chat. She’d instantly know that something was up with me, having seen enough of my run-ins with Kenneth the dick twat.

“Miss Veronese.” Peppe, my chauffeur nods, holding the door open for me.

Without meeting his gaze, I slip into the back seat.

The drive to our house is about half an hour, and I usually spend that time aimlessly gazing out the window. Now, however, I can’t seem to sit still. Although the windows are up and the AC isn’t on, a shiver races across my skin, and the fine hairs on my bare arm stand on end. Flashbacks of that scene in the school hallway flood my mind. I’d love to be able to talk to someone about it, just so I could call the shit-for-brains Kenneth a douchnozzle out loud. If my brother, Elmo, was alive I’m sure he would beat the shit out of Kenneth. He wouldn’t let anyone touch me or call me names. Or at least, that’s what I choose to believe. I barely remember Elmo, but Nera does. And she says he was the best brother in the whole world.

I sigh and reach into my bag for my phone. As I do, my eyes catch on the corner of a violet notebook peeking from between a few others. It’s the one I use to sketch my designs for custom clothing.

And to write silly letters to my stepbrother who’s in prison.

It all started a couple of years ago, while I was still in middle school. My seventh-grade teacher gave us an assignment to write a letter to a friend or family member living abroad. Initially, I considered addressing mine to an imaginary aunt or cousin, since I don’t have any real relatives that qualify. But it felt kind of stupid, writing to someone who doesn’t exist. But then, for some reason, Massimo popped into my mind.

My stepbrother was arrested for killing the man who murdered Elmo when I was three years old. I have no memories of him. Neither Nera nor I have seen Massimo since the night Elmo died. Massimo won’t allow anyone other than my father to visit him in prison, and Dad hardly ever tells us anything about our stepbrother. Despite us technically being family, he is a virtual stranger to me and my sister. But since Mom died, I’m not even sure if that thread is still whole.

Before her death, I asked Mom about the picture she kept on her dresser, the one of her and a guy in his late teens. His hair was dark, just as hers had been. I was curious about the boy, and she told me he was Massimo and shared a couple of stories from his childhood. I liked hearing them, but it made her sad to speak of my stepbrother, so she rarely did. She tried to bury the sorrow of having her child stuck in prison for so many years by showering Nera and me with all her love. Laura Veronese was a warm, affectionate woman, and the best mom anyone could ask for. But even as a kid, I saw the anguish in her eyes. The pain was always there. She died of embolism when I was nine. And even though the doctor said it was a massive clot in her bloodstream, I’m certain the true reason was her broken heart.

People say that it’s not technically possible to die from heartbreak, but I disagree. I’m certain of it because that’s what it felt like when Dad told Nera and me that Mom was gone. We shut ourselves in my room and cried, clutching at the matching dresses she made for us. Although we had lots of money, and Mom could afford to buy us anything we wanted, she preferred to make most of our clothes herself. That’s why I started sewing soon after. It makes me feel closer to her somehow.

With Mom gone, Massimo was the only family member, aside from Dad and Nera, I had left. He wasn’t living abroad, but he was real. That was why I took a sheet of paper from my notebook and wrote to a stepbrother whom I didn’t even know. He might as well have been living on a different planet, which seemed ideal for the assignment.

He must have laughed when he received that letter. I don’t even remember all the things I wrote in it. There was something about me claiming a set of fancy pens I found in a box with his name on it in the basement. I think I phrased it as a question first—asking if I could have them—then crossed the sentence out and rewrote it as a statement, so he couldn’t tell me no. I kind of expected him to write me back, but he never did. Eventually, I figured he must have thrown my unsolicited mail away.

I never intended to keep writing him letters.

With the school assignment over and done with, I forgot all about my unsolicited, and probably unwanted, written word vomit and carried on with life. Until a few months later. Until I was bursting at the seams to spout my frustrations to someone; someone who would not judge or look at me with pity. Or worse, tell me I was overreacting to what must have been just an accident.

Having juice spilled all over my new dress at Dania’s birthday party by a jerk-of-a-boy who laughed behind my back after was not an “accident”! So, once I got home, I wrote to Massimo again and raged about how stupid boys were for three entire paragraphs. Then, feeling better after confessing my troubles, and so he wouldn’t think I’m a negative person, I added some nonsense about a field trip and how one of the girls threw up on the bus after eating too much junk food even after the teacher warned her to take it easy. I thought he might replace that funny.

But there was no reply.

Still, I kept writing. I penned a letter every couple of months filled with dumb, unimportant things. Like, who came to a fancy lunch at our house and what food was served. Or how the plumber who was fixing our blocked sink ended up flooding the kitchen. I also ranted a lot about school. Math especially. And because I was so proud of my accomplishment, I even sent Massimo a sketch of the first dress I sewed for myself.

Since I’ve always been too anxious to talk with other people or be open about my feelings, over the last two years, writing to Massimo has become a sort of stress relief. It might sound pathetic, but those letters were the closest thing I had to a friend I could talk to about whatever was on my mind. It felt safe. I knew he would not criticize me or judge me. Because, obviously, Massimo wasn’t reading my letters in the first place. He never responded to a single one.

I really need my friend now, as I’m staring at the tattered lace in my hand. My mind starts to buzz with all the things I want to say to him.

“Everything alright, Miss Veronese?”

I look up, meeting Peppe’s gaze in the rearview mirror. He might wear a nice navy suit, but there’s an unmistakable air around him. A roughness, and maybe even a little danger. He doesn’t seem like a plain old driver to me, even if he’s been working as one as long as I can remember.

“Yes, all good,” I mumble.

When he looks back at the road, I pull out my violet notebook and flip to a blank page, one that follows the sketch I’ve been working on of a blouse with beautiful lantern sleeves. Fishing out a pen, I start my letter with Dear Massimo, as usual. It’s not that he’s “dear” to me or anything, it’s just a common way to start letters, I guess, and I’ve addressed them all like that so far.

I spend at least ten minutes describing the intricate details of the blouse—starting with the difficulties of getting the pattern just right, then the complexities of the cuffs and the hidden button at the back. After that, I switch to rambling about the fabrics I’m considering for when I eventually sew it, listing the pros and cons for each one.

Then, I let Massimo know about the barbecue Dad threw earlier this week, with most of the La Famiglia members in attendance. It was a big event. I write two paragraphs describing the outfits, as well as the gossip I overheard in the fifteen minutes I spent among the attendees.

As the words land on paper, I’m starting to feel better, but the situation with Kenneth is still heavy on my mind. Reeling from the encounter, and without really meaning to dump another pile of my woes at my stepbrother’s feet, I add a couple of brief sentences about what happened. I don’t go into much detail and finish up by calling Kenneth Harris an asshole who deserves a swift kick in the rear.

I sign the letter as I always do—Zahara.

I like my full name, but other than my teachers, no one calls me by it. I’m always Zara to everyone around me. When I was little, I couldn’t pronounce Zahara. I tripped over the syllables and ended up saying “Zara” instead. It stuck. I love my name, but at this point, it feels silly to ask everybody to call me Zahara. So I don’t bother.

“Peppe”—I tap the driver on the shoulder—“I need to make a quick stop at the post office.”

***

By the time we arrive home, rain is coming down in sheets. I don’t wait for Peppe to open my door, just dash out of the car and across the driveway to the front entrance. I don’t think he noticed my torn sleeve and I want to keep it that way. If he tells my dad, I’ll be accosted and I’ll have no choice but to provide an explanation. And I’m not in the mood to make up any more excuses today.

Running inside, soaking wet from my short sprint through the downpour, my eyes fall on a pile of mail on the antique console table in the foyer. Dad must not be home. He always takes the mail straight to his study when he arrives. As I pass by, I notice an unusual-looking white envelope among the typical bland utility bills and bright-colored invitations. It has a printed label of some kind in the upper left corner.

I pull out the envelope to take a better look and almost drop it. It’s addressed to me. And the return label is the name of the correctional facility where my stepbrother is serving his time.

Looking around to make sure nobody saw me, I race up the stairs, directly to my room. No one knows I’ve been writing to Massimo other than our maid, Iris. And I would prefer to keep it that way.

Something tells me Dad would not be pleased if he found out about my letters. Whenever he mentions my stepbrother’s name, there’s an odd pitch to his voice. It’s subtle, but it feels like his tone carries a bit of animosity. At my stepbrother? At the situation? Whatever the cause, it makes him cranky, and I’m afraid he’d forbid me from writing to Massimo if he knew.

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.

Massimo

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 counselor even 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 called bias binding and bound 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, very valuable, 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.

“Kiril.” I lift my chin at the shirtless guy sitting at the head of the table. His torso is covered in tattoos, and he has a brow piercing over his left eye. “Losing again?”

The Bulgarian fixes his gaze on me, then mumbles something in his native language. The rest of his boys drop their cards and leave in a hurry. Taking a seat at the empty spot on his right, I interlock my fingers behind my head.

“Something wrong with the job, Spada?”

“Nope.” I shake my head, scanning the yard for potential snitches. “Your problem will be dealt with tomorrow, as we agreed.”

“I want it to be painful.”

“Your preference has already been noted. Don’t worry. Your uncle will be handled with utmost care.”

“Good. I owe you one.”

I smile. “You owe me much more than ‘one.’ The way you keep going, I’ll have all of your problematic family members taken care of by the time you get out.”

A throaty laugh rumbles from his chest. “How the fuck do you do it, Spada? You’ve been locked up here for what, five years? And you can get shit handled on the outside as if you’re there personally.”

“Almost eleven,” I say. “As for how… well… loyalty, of those who know me. Money. A lot of it. And connections. A few favors. But most of all—fear. That’s definitely the best motivator.”

“Mm-hmm. Remind me not to get on your bad side. Ever.” He gives me a good-natured wink.

One of the COs in the guard tower signals the end of recreation time, and the inmates start trudging toward the entrance to Block D—my “Home Sweet Home” for another seven and a half years. Some are keeping to themselves, walking alone with their heads bent low, but most are gathered in larger groups. Keeping to their packs for protection. Trying not to draw the attention of the guards stationed throughout the yard.

This fucking place truly resembles a zoo sometimes.

“I need you to do something for me, Kiril.”

“Name it.”

“Some pissant has been harassing my stepsister at school.” I dip my head in greeting as the leader of one of the smaller gangs in my block passes. “I need you to send one of your nephews to have a chat with the little fucker. Do that, and I’ll consider the debt for your uncle paid in full.”

“Done. How intensive do you want that chat to be?”

“A few broken bones will suffice.”

“Is there a message you want my boys to relay?”

“Yes.” I meet Kiril’s gaze. “Next time he comes within twenty feet of Zahara Veronese, he’ll be eating his food through a straw. For the rest of his life.”

Kiril lifts his pierced brow. “I didn’t think you cared about anyone enough to trade favors for them. Especially, a stepsister?”

“I don’t give a fuck about the girl. But I need her focused on something more important than school bullies. Make sure it gets done.” I push off the bench. “This punk better replace his ass-kicking therapeutic.”