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

Three months earlier, New Year’s Eve

Home of Nuncio Veronese (Boston Cosa Nostra Don)

The smell of dried oregano and fresh produce tucked away in wooden crates on the shelves wars with the slight scent of mold hanging in the air. There are no windows, and the only source of light is the single fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling, throwing a yellow glow on a disheveled, sniveling mess of a man. Carlo Forino. Two of my guys flank him, keeping him from leaping off the stool his ass is currently planted on.

I flip a chair around and straddle it, hanging my forearms off the sturdy wooden back while I observe this pitiful excuse of a human. Carlo is breathing rapidly, practically hyperventilating, but he avoids meeting my gaze. He knows why he’s here. And he knows what’s coming.

His labored breaths mix with the subdued tones of a piano drifting in through the closed door. Even though the party is largely happening in the main hall on the other side of the mansion, the sounds carry all the way here, to this out-of-the-way pantry.

“Where’s our money, Carlo?” I ask.

“Business hasn’t been going well at the bar, Massimo,” the man chokes out. “But it’s just a bit of a rough patch. I swear I’ll pay you guys back. I just need a few more days.”

I cross my arms over the top of the chair and cock my head. “Your business troubles don’t have any bearing on our deal. The due date was yesterday.”

“Next week. I’ll have it all next week.”

“Alright.” I nod and turn to Peppe, who’s standing to the left of me. “There are meat shears in the drawer over there. Cut off his pinkie.”

“Massimo.” Elmo’s voice comes from the corner of the room. “Is that really necessary? He said he’ll pay.”

I look over my shoulder, pinning my stepbrother with my stare. His face has a peculiar greenish hue, and he’s fidgeting with his hands. Even in his fancy, tailored tux, he still looks like a kid. Elmo turned eighteen last week, and his father, the don of the Boston Cosa Nostra, figured it was time his son was more involved in the Family’s dealings. This “meeting” was supposed to be Elmo’s introduction to the less savory side of the business.

Too bad Elmo is not cut out for this life. Much like his father, actually.

“We’re not a charity institution, Elmo. You don’t want this scumbag to go around telling people La Famiglia has gone soft, do you?”

A howling wail reverberates through the room.

“No but…” Elmo’s gaze wanders toward Carlo, who, by the sounds of it, has just lost his finger. “Dear God. I… I’m going to be sick.”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose and exhale. “Leave, Elmo.”

“You know I can’t. Dad said—”

“And I said, get the fuck out!” If he loses the contents of his stomach in front of our men, he’ll lose their respect. And in Cosa Nostra, respect is everything.

I get up and approach my stepbrother, ignoring Carlo’s increasingly pathetic wails. Elmo’s face has gone so pale it looks translucent. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I squeeze it reassuringly. “I’ll talk with Nuncio and make sure he comes to his senses. Have you decided on a college?”

“Yes, but… I don’t think he’ll let me. He wants—”

“I don’t give a fuck what Nuncio wants. Consider the whole thing done. And stop fidgeting with your damn tie.” I adjust the bow that was tied askew at his collar. The kid isn’t a suit guy, that’s for sure. My tailor nearly had a meltdown trying to make Elmo stand still while taking his measurements. “Go, enjoy the party. I’ll be there in a bit.”

With a deep breath, Elmo nods. “Thank you, Massimo.” He taps my chest with his palm and the next second, he’s out the door.

I turn around, ready to finish my business here. Carlo is clutching a kitchen towel to his bloody hand, whimpering like a pussy.

Four pairs of eyes trace my path to the shelf where Peppe left the shears tucked between two jars of sun-dried tomatoes. I pull a lighter from my pocket and hold the slightly curved blades of the shears over the flame. “Let me see your hand.”

“Why?” Carlo croaks.

“Lots of blood vessels in fingers. Wouldn’t want you to bleed to death, right? You die, and who’s gonna pay your debt?” I nod to the guys, my handpicked crew of enforcers. “Hold him down.”

Carlo tries to fight back, but my men subdue him easily. Peppe grabs the sniveling bastard’s wrist and presents the wounded hand to me. Shoving the lighter back into my pants, I get ahold of the unreliable idiot’s palm.

“You have three days,” I bark.Content provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

Then, I press the heated blade to the bleeding stump of his finger, and the smell of burned flesh fills the room.

“Massimo.” The pantry door swings open, revealing Salvo. “Elmo said you’re here and… What in the hell is that smell?”

“Persuasion. For deadbeats.” I step to the side, giving him a direct view of the now passed-out Forino.

Salvo swallows audibly. His eyes are wide as they roam over the blood stains and pause on the severed finger on the floor. “Sweet Jesus.”

I shake my head. Salvo and I attended the same prep school and have been best friends since day one. Whereas I’ve never let the high-society glitter get to me and have been doing this shit for years, he’s fourth generation Cosa Nostra and accustomed to all the pomp and circumstance that goes along with money, power, and prestige. His father is a capo, and his grandfather was an underboss in his time. This means that Salvo doesn’t usually get his hands dirty or even stoop low enough to witness how the shadier parts of our business are handled.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Don V. has been asking when you’re going to join the guests,” he mumbles, eyes still focused on the severed finger.

“As soon as I wash my hands.”

“Um… okay.”

“Save me a few shrimp before Leone eats them all,” I toss at his quickly retreating back.

***

I enter the great hall, taking in the glitz and glamour that is all my mother’s handiwork. The guy in the flashy white suit is still playing the piano, but thank fuck he switched to a livelier tune. The don and my mother are having a pleasant chat with a few of the city’s higher-ups on the far side of the room, right next to the elaborately decorated Christmas tree. If there were any doubt, the big grin Nuncio is wearing as he stands just to the left of Judge Collins shows how truly he enjoys all the fanfare and other benefits that being at the helm of the Family affords him.

If the plan had gone as it should have, it would be me in his place. Too bad sometimes shit doesn’t go as intended.

I was raised and have been trained to assume the leadership of Boston Cosa Nostra since I turned twelve. While other fathers took their sons to football games, mine dragged me to shady clubs and derelict buildings to meet with our suppliers. Instead of playing video games like my friends, I was learning how to shoot. While other boys my age were leafing through porn magazines, I was sitting with my father in our accountant’s office, learning how to launder money. Any time there was a big deal going down, my father brought me with him to witness the deed. Despite my father being the Boston don, I was not pampered like the sons of other privileged Family members. Our blood was definitely not blue.

My father started out as a lowly worker, laboring at one of Cosa Nostra’s warehouses. He became a made man at seventeen and spent two decades rising through the ranks until he became the underboss. Then, eight years ago, he took over leadership of the Boston Family. Dad believed that only someone who’d experienced all roles on the ladder of Cosa Nostra would make a good leader. Because only someone with personal knowledge of the plights of the soldiers would act in the best interests of every member of La Famiglia and not only the higher-ups. And since he wanted me to succeed him as the don, that meant I had to go through it all, too.

So I did. Collected money from the men who owed us. And beat the shit out of those who couldn’t pay. I can’t even count the number of times I got home with bloodstains on my clothes after witnessing how the Cosa Nostra justice was served firsthand. I accompanied the foot soldiers on their rounds around the neighborhood or went with them to retaliate against other crime organizations. I spent more days in a dive bar by the waterfront with the organization’s muscle, playing poker and drinking, than I spent evenings with my friends from school. I didn’t get to go to my junior prom because I spent the night sprawled on a wooden bench in the back room of a casino while a doc dug a bullet out of my thigh after a drug deal went sideways. Quite a thrill-filled life for a teenager. And I liked it that way.

I never minded my lost childhood because I knew I was being groomed to take over the Family when the time came. But that time arrived too soon. I was barely eighteen when my father died. A decade too early for anyone to even consider me for the role. I was a young pup among seasoned dogs. And those bitches couldn’t be taught any new tricks.

At the quickly assembled Family meeting, Nuncio Veronese was voted in as the next don. It was an unexpected turn of events. Until it happened, I was sure it would be Batista Leone who’d take over. Older. More experienced. My father’s underboss. I think even Nuncio himself was rather surprised when he ended up as the leader of the Cosa Nostra in Boston.

Veronese had young kids and had lost his wife in childbirth only months earlier. So at that same meeting, a deal for him to marry my mother was struck. They married soon after. A wise move. There’s no better way of strengthening your position as a new don than marrying your predecessor’s widow and bringing his son under your roof. Considering my age—old enough, just not for sitting at the head of the table—I was relegated to the position of Nuncio’s glorified “left hand.” A messenger, doling out judgment and discipline on behalf of the new don.

Loud, joyful laughter erupts from the group standing by the Christmas tree, pulling me back to the party. Nuncio probably delivered one of his jokes. Fancy dinners and parties with our investors, public appearances, and fundraising events for the organizations we launder money through are always my stepfather’s jam, and he pulls them off impeccably.

The charisma the man has is unparalleled. Nuncio Veronese can talk an otherwise rational person into cutting off their own hand and convince them it’s for their own good. They might even have the urge to thank him for it. People always gravitate toward him like he’s the fucking sun. Important, powerful people. He plays golf with the chief of police every second Wednesday. Has an open invitation to all influential households in the Greater Boston region. Every socialite and power-hungry member of the Boston elite has attended at least one of Nuncio’s summer backyard BBQs. He even managed to get a fucking Massachusetts State judge to come to our New Year’s party.

Ever since my father’s time as the don, Cosa Nostra has been swinging toward a more “populist” approach and avoiding open confrontations with the law. That’s probably why Nuncio was chosen to succeed my father. The Family was convinced they made a good choice.

They were wrong.

Nuncio is not a bad man. And that’s his worst fault. He’s not fit to be in charge of a Mafia Family because when it comes to the dark side of our business, the side that requires horrid and vile work, he doesn’t have the stomach for it. That became abundantly clear shortly after he took over. The first time he needed to kill a man, the poor bastard almost fainted. He couldn’t even manage to put a bullet into the head of a snitch, ending up hitting the fucker’s shoulder instead. Thank fuck it was only me and him in the room. I had to step in and finish the job. I was Elmo’s age then. And it wasn’t even my first kill.

Gory stuff aside, I hoped Nuncio would at least persevere in other areas. But he proved himself absolutely incapable of handling the Family’s business dealings and finances, too. Can’t say he didn’t try, though. Within three months of taking over, he funneled all our laundered cash into a big-ass construction project but failed to analyze the risks or calculate the anticipated costs. We lost our liquidity and were left with a half-finished residential block in the suburbs and no money to finish the build. I had to leverage several of my father’s connections to find investors ready to buy the units before the gray shell phase was complete. After that fiasco, Nuncio started consulting with me on all investments. By my nineteenth birthday, unbeknownst to the rest of the Family, I was making every business decision in the don’s stead.

So Nuncio and I struck our own deal. I do the heavy lifting. Manage the finances. Call the shots on investments. Maim and kill people when necessary. And he puts up with the asinine, pompous bullshit, like hosting a party for people who’d stab you in the back the moment you turned or going to fundraisers and sweet-talking the important people we need on our side. And when I turn twenty-five, he’ll make me a capo. Then, his underboss. And when the time feels right, when I’m seen as “old enough” to take over the reins of the Family, he’ll step down. If he doesn’t, I’ll just kill him.

“Hey, Massimo.” Brio, the capo running our casinos catches up to me as I’m making my way through the crowd. “Did Boss say anything about the expansion plan I presented last week?”

“Yes.” I grab a flute of champagne off a waiter’s tray. “He said it’s an epic load of crap. At the current revenue level, no expansion for the next two years at the minimum.”

“Fuck! I spent weeks working out the details, looking for suitable locations for the new casino. I even researched…” I let Brio continue his incessant babbling, complaining about the “don’s” decision, and take in the people in the room.

It’s almost midnight, so everyone is having a good time, more or less wasted on free-flowing champagne. I pretend not to notice the two tiny shapes hiding behind the banister on the second-floor landing. My stepsisters love sneaking out of bed and spying on guests during parties. Mother will have their hide if she sees them.

Nera was three when my mother married Nuncio, and Zahara was still a baby, barely a year old. Both think of my mother as their own. They even call her “Mom.” I don’t mind. The little brats are a nuisance I simply try to ignore, but Mother loves them like they are her own flesh and blood. I’m glad. I was never a cuddly child interested in hugs and kisses. I’m happy she finally has the chance to be a loving, caring mom to two girls who crave her warmth the way I never did.

My eyes travel to a couple half-hidden by a marble column in the entryway as they murmur suggestively to each other. Looks like Elmo is trying to sweet-talk Tiziano’s sister. Christ, she’s nearly twice his age and will easily chew him up and spit him out, undoubtedly breaking his heart.

For some absolutely unexplainable reason, I’ve connected with my stepbrother. Maybe it’s because he’s the only truly good-hearted person I know, aside from my mother. There isn’t a single evil bone in the boy’s body, despite being born into a Mafia world and constantly surrounded by snakes. He’s everything I’ll never be. Kind. Thoughtful, especially about the people around him. And selfless to a fault.

Deep down, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a brother. As a boy, I craved a confidant of my own with whom I could share my worries. How much pressure I felt to meet Father’s expectations. The taste of acid in my mouth every time I had to maim or kill a man. And the hollow feeling that eventually set in when that sour taste numbed.

All too soon, that bitter burn no longer lodged in my throat. I got used to it. The job became like any other. But once in a while, a stray thought invaded my mind. A feeling of wrongness for taking lives without being even remotely perturbed about it. On the other hand, I realized I’d stopped feeling the strain I’d been under. And that realization made me even more fractured.

I could never admit those concerns to my father, not without appearing weak. And telling my mother was always out of the question. She still clings to the illusion that her son is a good person. But a brother? Yes, I could confide in a brother. And Elmo is the closest I have to that.

That’s probably why I feel this weird compulsion to protect Elmo from the clutches of those who would use him for their own selfish needs. His dreams include college and a normal life. And I’ll make damn sure that happens.

Amid the festivities, raised voices ring out somewhere near the front door. My gaze snaps over to the entrance where two, obviously drunk, men are arguing. Jesus. I’m looking around the room, trying to spot one of our security guards to throw the idiots out, when fists start flying. One shoves the other, yelling into his adversary’s face, and reaches inside his jacket.

I immediately head toward them and out of the corner of my eye, see Elmo doing the same. “Elmo!” I roar. “Get back!”

He either doesn’t hear my command or decides to ignore me, thinking he can calm the situation. I’m running full speed, but since he was closer, Elmo reaches the enraged men mere seconds before I do.

My fingertips nearly brush his jacket when I lunge for him to pull him away, just as an ear-shattering boom splits the air.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, the sound of that gunshot is the only thing I hear.

No music. No laughter. Just an earthshaking blast. And then, Elmo stumbles backward, colliding with my chest.

Screams explode around us.

“Elmo!” I yell, wrapping my arm around his body to support him.

The fabric of his tux is wet against my palm, and his blood oozes over my hand. Seeing nothing but red, I let savage rage consume me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware that there are too many people here, too many witnesses. A good portion of them are not members of the Family. Including Boston’s chief of police.

I don’t care.

Not giving a fuck about the repercussions, I reach behind my back and pull out my Glock. With my next breath, an animalistic roar leaves my throat, and I send the bullet flying between the eyes of the motherfucker who just shot my stepbrother.