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

The moment the jet taxis over to the apron, I leap out of my seat and rush toward the airstairs. A group of my men is already waiting by the hangar doors.

“Any trace of them?” I growl.

“No.” Joey, one of Peppe’s cousins shakes his head. “Neither Salvo nor his mother are at Canali’s. Just their staff. Our guys couldn’t find anything useful.”

“What about Peppe?”

“Some biker found him in his Jeep, pulled over in the slums. He was shot. Three bullets to the chest.”

“Is he alive?”

“Yes. Or was when they took him into surgery. He lost a lot of blood. Still waiting to hear if he’ll make it.”

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes and take a deep breath.

“Do you think it was Camorra, boss? We tracked down everyone we knew of, but maybe there’s someone we missed. Could this be retaliation?”

Could it? Definitely probable. The possibility of a gang of Camorra fucks lying in wait and then chasing my people down is very goddammed likely. Is that what happened here? Was Peppe shot while Salvo managed to get away with Zahara? Are they currently safe somewhere, hiding out? Jesus fuck, I want to believe that to be true. But something tells me it isn’t.

The phone in my pocket starts vibrating. Pulling it out, I check the caller ID. Salvo Canali. I should be feeling a modicum of relief right now. Instead, heart-stopping terror grips me. My guts twist into a tangled mess as I stare at that name on the screen.

“Boss?” Joey mumbles. “You okay?”

“Get back to the house and wait for further instructions.”

“Are you sure? We can—”

“NOW!”

With adrenaline pumping through my body, I draw a sharp, impatient breath. Then, swiping right to answer, I bring the phone up to my ear.

“Where. Is. She?” I can barely get the words out, while an icy current zaps down my spine.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

“With me,” Salvo replies. “Safe and sound. For the moment, at least.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

The bastard laughs. “Remember the spot we were always sneaking away to when we were kids? Let’s play again. Be there in an hour.”

The line goes dead.

***

I move a pine branch to the side and step into a small meadow surrounded by majestic evergreens. Looking utterly perverse at the center of this beautiful glade is an elaborate neoclassical structure. The Canali Family Mausoleum. Three generations of Canalis are buried within its burgundy granite walls, locked behind black art deco doors that are flanked by polished white Ionic columns.

Before this night ends, I’ll make sure the fourth generation joins the eternal ranks.

“I’m glad to see you had the good sense to come alone. My don.”

Salvo is leaning on one of the columns, arms crossed at his chest. The wrought iron lantern over the entrance casts light on the black Glock in his hand.

I keep my steps slow and measured as I cover the distance between us. Acid churns in my stomach, and the bitter taste of his betrayal tightens my throat. With every ounce of my control, I resist immediately rushing the bastard. Though nothing would give me more pleasure than snapping his treacherous neck.

“Where’s Zahara?”

“Inside. Keeping my dad company.” He grins.

Red paints the edges of my vision and my ears start to ring. He has my angel inside the fucking tomb!

My fingers are itching for my gun, and I’m a split second away from drawing it out when a voice thunders inside my head.

Don’t! You’ll jeopardize our girl!

Taking a deep breath, I shake the tension out of my muscles, adopting a nonthreatening stance. “Let her go, Salvo. This—whatever this is—it’s between you and me.”

“Hmm. You’ve finally wised up. Took you a while. Two decades, almost.”

“Never figured it’d be my best friend who’d stick a knife in my back.”

The look he gives me is one of undisguised hate. “I was never your friend! The only reason I showed you even a semblance of friendship was because my father made me. The old goat even transferred me into your school, despite me begging him not to.”

“Why?”

“So I could get close to the Don’s prodigy, of course,” he sneers. “Can you fucking imagine how it felt to be compared to you my entire fucking childhood? To a piece of trash who somehow always got top grades, despite missing more than half the classes. And why? Because he was too busy roughhousing with common soldiers and slumming it down by the docks. Our noble prince! The son of a goddamned warehouse worker who wouldn’t know what true class is even if it bit him in the ass!”

“You’re doing this because I did better than you at school?” I stare at him, flabbergasted.

“At everything!” he yells, eyes bulging from his head. “For years, all I heard was how much better you were. How easily you caught on about the Family finances. And business dealings, how those came so effortlessly to you. And let’s not forget the loyalty of our men. All anyone could ever talk about was what a perfect leader you’d be once your time came. You! When it should have been me!”

The casual posture he greeted me with is now gone. Pacing left and right in front of the mausoleum door, he waves his hand in the air like a lunatic. I wouldn’t bet against the fact the safety on the gun in his other hand is off. In his fit, he might shoot his foot just as easily as killing me. But there’s a more serious danger, and that’s the possibility of a stray bullet finding its way through the door. And I can’t let that happen. I need to weigh the risks, assess my options, and figure out how to get past him and inside.

“My great-grandfather was one of the founding members of Cosa Nostra in the States,” he continues his hysterical rambling. “That’s the Canali legacy! By right, my father should have been made don! But this Family had denied him twice his due. First when they picked your old man, and then again, when Nuncio was chosen. It became clear that you, undoubtedly, would succeed him. There was no way we could allow a pleb to take what’s meant to be ours, again.”

“We?”

An evil smirk pulls at his lips. “It was my father’s idea to seize the exceptional opportunity of you being arrested. A few strategically dropped threats and the greasing of several palms later, and you were locked up, where you belonged. After my father died, I simply carried on what he had started.”

“Then, why help me? All those years, you aided and abetted as I ran our business. Why the fuck would you do that?”

“You?” He stops pacing and hits himself in the chest with his fist. “I was helping myself! Left to his own devices, Nuncio would have ruined the Family. There would have been nothing left for me to take over!”

I throw another glance at the mausoleum entrance and cautiously reach behind my back. God only knows what might happen to Zahara if I’m incapacitated or dead, but I need to try something. If I can just keep the son of a bitch talking, I might be able to pull out my gun without him noticing.

“So what?” I ask. “You backed my ass, letting me run things from behind bars while you bided your time for an opportune moment, so you could take over?”

“Something like that. Laying the groundwork took some time and a fair bit of effort. I had to convince Leone to have Nuncio assassinated first. With him in charge, he could name me underboss, paving the way for my eventual takeover. Due to his health conditions, that wouldn’t have taken long. I just needed to get you out of the picture before that happened. Too bad the idiots I hired failed.”

The two assholes who jumped me after I got back from Nuncio’s funeral.

This fucking guy!

“And you really screwed me by having Nera take the reins, effectively putting a muzzle on Leone. With her in the know, I had to wait to take her out, otherwise, things would look too suspicious. Once she asserted herself as the official leader, that was my chance. I still can’t fucking believe the Sicilians failed, all because of that long-haired beast of hers!”

He’s spewing bullshit like a fucking geyser, and I can’t help but think he’s lost his goddamned mind.

“I took another crack at it,” he continues, “getting Armando to ambush her. I figured, pinning her murder on him would be a piece of cake. But that good-for-nothing junkie couldn’t put a bullet in her head even when I practically delivered it to him on a platter. And then, it cost me three million more to off his fucking ass before he could start singing. Three! That’s what I had to pay that greedy De Santi to take the job. Not the usual two. That’s a premium rate, Spada, and all because he needed to sneak past his own people to get inside. And for what? Just to take out the trash?”

“You’re sick,” I spit out, shifting my hand closer to the gun tucked into my waistband.

“No. I’m just driven to make sure I get what I deserve.” He lifts his weapon, aiming at my head. “Do you think I’m stupid? Turn around so I can see and lose the piece. Then, get inside.”

Fuck.

His gun is aimed at me the entire time as I pull out my Glock and toss it on the grass. If he thinks I can’t kill him with my bare hands, he has another thing coming.

I approach the mausoleum and pause at the threshold, but he prods my back with the barrel of his gun. As soon as I step inside the tomb, my eyes frantically search for Zahara. The space is cramped and stifling, shrouded in shadows. Aside from the faint glare of the overhead lantern outside the door, the only light is from a strip of wall washer that illuminates the names of those who are now at rest. It takes a moment for my vision to adjust, but finally, I see her. A small huddled form wedged between two sarcophagi on the floor.

“Jesus, baby.” My feet are already moving to her when an earsplitting boom echoes off the walls.

“Take another step, and the next bullet, I’ll put in her head.”

Zahara

The sound of a gunshot is still ringing in my ears as my eyes bounce between Massimo and Salvo, trying to decide what the fuck I should do now.

When Salvo dragged me in here, he bound my hands with rope and pushed me between the two stone coffins. It took me over twenty minutes to wiggle the scissors from inside my pouch and slice through the bonds. An atavistic instinct must have had me hanging on to my trusty travel bag that has all my sewing essentials—including my favorite pair of fabric scissors—when Salvo forced me out of his Porsche upon our arrival. Once he ripped the pouch out of my grip and threw it on the floor so he could tie my hands, I remembered what was contained there.

“You have me now,” Massimo says as he turns around, positioning himself directly between me and Salvo. Shielding me with his body from the nutcase blocking the exit. “You don’t need Zahara anymore. She’s in no way involved, so let her go.”

“Of course she’s involved!” Salvo snarls. “She’s yet another thing you took away from me! She was perfect! A nice, cultured Italian woman. Obedient. And loyal. Once I realized what she was doing for you, how much trust you’d placed in her, I knew I had to have her. Just as everything else you considered to be yours. But she fucking rejected me. Because of you! Like everyone else, she chose you. And for that, she has to die, too.”

Oh God, he’s completely bonkers! Desperately, I look around the room, as if an answer to how we get out of this will magically present itself. Maybe if there were someone else here who could save us from this madman. But there’s no one. We’re on our own.

“Zahara didn’t choose me,” Massimo says. He’s standing motionless at the center of the mausoleum. “I threatened her. I told her I’d kill her sister if she didn’t agree to be with me. I love her and couldn’t bear the thought of her belonging to anyone else. And she hates me for it.”

Salvo cocks his head while his focus shifts to me. “Is that true, Zara?”

I steal a quick look at Massimo, who’s now staring at me over his shoulder. There’s no mistaking the order in his eyes. Lie, Zahara, they say.

I swallow and immediately turn my glare to Salvo. “Yes.”

“But you told me that you love him. Was that because of Massimo’s threats, as well?”

I nod.

“Well… It does sound like something he’d actually do. Perhaps I will spare you. Killing him and taking his empire… and then the woman he loves? Yeah, that sounds—No. Maybe death isn’t the worst punishment for him…” He grins, returning his attention to Massimo. “What if I told you I’ll only let Zara live if you admit to the Council that you’re not fit for the role of the don? You step down and name me your successor. And then, you leave the country, knowing that I have everything that was once yours. You can die miserably in some fucking ditch, for all I care. ’Cause, that’s where you belong!”

“I’ll do it!”

Massimo’s words thunder across the space. Once. Twice. They echo inside the silent tomb, as if spoken by a chorus of voices. Bouncing off the granite walls. Reverberating through my mind. Over and over again. My lungs constrict as I process his meaning. His choice is me. He’s choosing me over Cosa Nostra.

Laughter rings out from Salvo once more, but it’s not a happy sound. It’s something deranged. And sick. It makes goose bumps break out all over my skin.

“My… my… You really are a goner.”

“I’ll do anything you want. Anything,” Massimo growls. “Do whatever you want with me, but please, let Zahara go.”

“Please?” Salvo lifts his brows, then cackles. “Massimo Spada begging? That’s a first.”

“Yes, I am. Please, Salvo.”

“Oh, I love the sound of your pleading way too much.” He takes a step to the side and levels his gun on me. “I want you to kneel, Massimo. Kneel and beg for her life.”

“No,” I choke out. He can’t do it! He can’t!

My insides twist into knots, settling in the pit of my stomach like a giant boulder as I watch in horror as Massimo drops to his knees.

“Please,” he rasps. “I beg you. Please, Salvo.”

I can’t keep the tears at bay anymore. They well in my eyes and slide down my cheeks as I stare at the man I love. I’ve always been in awe of his pride. No matter what he faced, Massimo has always walked with his head held high, his shoulders back, and his spine locked straight as steel. Now though, he’s slumped on the floor in front of this bastard. On his knees. Begging. For my life.

“This is pure heaven.” Salvo inhales loudly, like a man sniffing his next line of cocaine. Stepping forward, he points his gun at Massimo’s chest. “Now I’m glad that fucker of an ex-con failed. If he’d managed to pop you at the mall, I would have missed this.” Manic scorn saturates his expression and his tone. “Hell! It’s so damn hard to find competent help these days, right? I mean, I led him straight to you with the tracker, but the dimwit couldn’t finish a simple job.” His face contorts again as he clenches his jaw. “I bet your little helper never let you down,” he almost whispers. “Zara! Go wait for me outside. I want to be the only witness to Massimo Spada taking his last breath. It’s an image that’ll keep me warm at night. Along with you.”

“You said you’d let him live!” I cry out, stumbling toward the kneeling Massimo.

“Did I?” Salvo cocks his head. “No, I don’t think I did. Out! Now!”

“Zahara.” Massimo’s voice makes me shudder. “I need you to leave.”

Swallowing a whimper, I turn to face him. Dark-as-night eyes bore into mine, and I wonder how they can look at me with such softness, yet hold so much ferocity in their depths at the same time. Massimo has always been a mix of extreme contradictions. And his gaze has never reflected that as clearly as it does now. Rage and calmness. Unwavering resolve and absolute chaos.

“Go,” he says. Trust me, his eyes add.

Slowly, I nod. “I’ll wait outside.”

With legs made of lead, I trudge toward the door, keeping my hands behind my back to hide the cut bonds. Every step away from Massimo is an agony I can barely bear, but I urge myself forward.

“She’ll learn to obey me, too,” Salvo sneers as I pass him. “Very soon.”

I exit the mausoleum and press my back to the outside wall next to the door. The tip of my fabric scissors, hidden inside my sleeve, digs into my forearm. It’s a useless weapon against a gun, but I kept them with me regardless.

“Any last words, Massimo?” Salvo’s condescending voice carries from inside.

“Yes.”

The silence stretches, the void ominous in the darkness. My pulse skyrockets as all I can do is madly clutch the scissors to my galloping heart. Waiting. I’m not even sure what for.

In Massimo’s eyes, I saw his intent to kill Salvo, but I have no idea how he plans to do it. Knowing Massimo, however, he’ll put the bastard through hell first. For all those years of imprisonment. For having nearly half of his life stolen from him. Betrayed by someone he believed to be his friend. What could he possibly say to the asshole who did that?

“Well?” Salvo snaps. “I’m all ears.”

“I’LL MAKE YOU PAY FOR PUTTING YOUR FILTHY HANDS ON MY FUTURE WIFE, YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!”

A gunshot exploded when Massimo started shouting. And now the thumps and thuds of a vicious battle reach my ears.

Another loud bang echoes inside, and a part of the column near the doorway splinters, small fragments raining down next to my feet. A muffled whimper leaves my lips as I squeeze the scissors to me like a lifeline. The sounds of the struggle inside amplify my distress.

Rampant grunting. Stuff breaking. Strangled noises. And something decidedly metal hitting the floor.

I have to do something.

Oh God, I must do something.

Taking a long deep breath, I push away from the wall and slip across the threshold of the tomb.

Dust hangs in the air, the mites dancing in the beams of scattered light. The floor is littered with bits of stone and shattered statuette pieces that not so long ago decorated the inner sanctum. The scent of gunpowder permeates the air, but there’s something else that’s smelling up the place, too. Blood.

My eyes snap to the left where the labored breaths and grunts are coming from. Two figures are tangled on the floor. Massimo—thank goodness—has his knee jammed into Salvo’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Massimo’s hand is wrapped around the traitor’s throat, and he’s throwing punch after punch at Salvo’s face. There is dust and rubble all over his clothes, and the left sleeve of his shirt is torn. I don’t see Salvo’s gun anywhere.

“Goddamned bastard!” Massimo roars, hitting Salvo’s chin. “I’ll beat your fucking head into mush!”

As he takes another swing, the underboss manages to land a punch to Massimo’s solar plexus. The two of them end up wrestling across the floor, trying to kill each other in a variety of ways. Choke holds. Headlocks. Gut punches. Elbows to the crotch. Whatever they can reach. They roll to the foot of a massive weeping angel statue, which towers above them like a silent witness to this death match.

Both men are dirty and bloody, and Massimo once more appears to have the upper hand. As he winds up for the final strike, though, Salvo somehow manages to slither out of reach and kicks the base of the sculpture.

Breath lodges inside my lungs, and I watch in horror as the winged angel wobbles, then tilts.

“Massimo!” I scream, but my warning comes too late.

The heavy statue collides with Massimo’s shoulder, shoving him backward. He falls to the floor amid a thunderous crash of broken stone. And doesn’t get up.

My legs carry me toward Massimo’s unmoving form before my brain has the chance to register what’s happening before me. Salvo, pushing to his knees, drags a huge chunk of a busted wing toward him.

“You’re done, Spada.” His deranged laugh peals off the mausoleum walls while he raises the heavy fragment above his head.

One breath.

One blink.

A skipped heartbeat.

I swallow my animalistic scream and bury my scissors in the side of his neck. Salvo cries out, collapsing to the side. The piece of the angel’s wing slips from his hands and falls to the ground, breaking in half. My hand aches from the force of my grip as I stagger back.

As I gasp and wheeze for air, I stare at the scumbag, almost mesmerized by the spurts of blood that pulse from his wound. I must have hit an artery. He’s panting like a dog, his hands shaking while he tries to get ahold of the scissors and apply pressure to his neck.

“Help me.” The rasp that leaves his lips is barely audible.

Really? He orchestrated the assassination of my father. Tried to kill my sister, twice. And God only knows how many times he tried to murder Massimo. But he wants my help?

I never thought myself capable of taking someone’s life. Then again, I never thought I could do many things that I’ve done. So, with my eyes fixed on his, I lift my foot and slam it down on the protruding handle of the scissors, thrusting them further into his flesh.

“That’s the obedient, well-bred, Italian girl for you.” I spit on his not-yet-cold body, then turn and rush to Massimo’s side.

“Hey.” Dropping to my knees next to him, I cup his face with my palms. “Look at me.”

Massimo’s eyelids flutter, and when he finally lifts them, he struggles to focus on me with uneven pupils.

“Baby?”

Some of the weight lifts off my chest. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit lightheaded,” he drawls. “Did we just have sex? ’Cause I might have blacked out and want a repeat.” He glances around, looking dazed and confused. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Canali’s mausoleum. I think you might have a concussion. A severe one.”

Massimo’s forehead furrows. Groaning, he sits up and presses his hand to the back of his head. “Ouch. Whose idea was it to have sex in a fucking tomb? And why—” He cuts himself off, seeing Salvo’s body. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

For a long moment, he just stares at the corpse. Then, his eyes suddenly widen, snapping to mine.

“Jesus fuck!” A viselike hold locks around my waist as he pulls me to his lap, tucking my face into the crook of his neck. “That fucker. I thought he was going to kill you, angel.” Practically plastering me to his chest, he rocks us back and forth, back and forth. “When he called and told me he had you…”

“I’m okay,” I manage to mumble into his neck.

“And then I saw you curled on the floor… Shit, baby… He pointed a fucking gun at you, and… Oh God—”

“Massimo…”

He buries his hand in my hair, pressing my head more firmly against him while the rocking continues. “I would have died if something happened to you and— WILL YOU FUCKING SHUT UP! I’M NOT SMOTHERING HER!”

“Um… You kinda are,” I snort.

“Oh.” He stops the rocking but doesn’t ease the force of his embrace. “Is this alright? Because I need this, Zahara. Need to feel you, to know you’re safe and unharmed, and to—”

“I’m safe. I’m not hurt, and”—I manage to turn my face, just a little—“yes, I can breathe.”

“Good.” The rocking resumes. “Were you scared? Of course you were. At least you didn’t witness the worst of the bloodbath. You didn’t come in until I finished him, right?”

“Um… actually…”

“That fucking cunt. I wish he wasn’t dead, yet. I want to kill him all over again for threatening you. My sweet, sweet angel…”

I close my eyes and inhale Massimo’s citrusy scent, letting it soothe me. We’ll have time to go over the specifics of Salvo’s death later on. Right now, I just want him to hold me. It feels so damn good to be wrapped in Massimo’s arms—

“Zahara?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Why are your sewing scissors stuck in Salvo’s neck?”