Page 22 of Rubies and Revenge

“Are you ready?” she asks.

I hum, not trusting my voice to be anything less than husky.

She assesses my outfit, starting at my Italian leather boots and ending at the collar of my silk shirt. “You look expensive.”

I snort. “Thanks.”

“And you didn’t wear any weapons, right?” She fidgets with the chains of her purse, crosses and uncrosses her ankles.

“I didn’t.”

“Good. That’s good.” She chews on her lip, staring out the window before twisting again. “Make sure you kneel at the altar first. God before idols and men, or whatever.”

I don’t look directly at her, yet she’s all I can see. “I know.”

“Let me do most of the talking,” she says.

I shake my head at that. “We’ll both talk.”

“I’m serious, Tamayo.” She finally turns fully in her seat.

“So am I.”

She huffs. “My mother yesterday was only a taste of what tonight will be.”

“I’m not incompetent, princess.” I pull my phone out when it buzzes—a capo reporting on today’s weapons drop. It can wait. “I got where I am for a reason.”

Zarina doesn’t immediately reply, and I frown at her—her eyes are fixed on my hand where it holds my phone, brows furrowed. Headlights bounce through the cab and over her face, forcing her to blink. I tuck my phone away again.

“Your ring,” she says.

I pull my left hand out of my pocket and hold it up where it catches the glow of passing streetlights. On the third finger sits a yellow-gold band inlaid with scrollwork similar to the tattoos on my neck. And set in its cradle is a large, oval ruby as beautifully cut as the one at Zarina’s throat.

“Is that…” She gulps down the rest of the question.

“It is.” I glance at her fists balled in her lap. Not a single ring adorns her fingers despite the heavy, black box I gave heryesterday. I want to ask, but I bite my tongue. She knows the Council far better than I do. She must have a plan.

Saint Christopher’s Cathedral looms ahead, stained glass windows set in stone arches, statue saints standing guard along the parapets. We stop at the front steps, and I reach over, placing my hand around Zarina’s knee and squeezing “We’ve got this. Just breathe.”

And then her door is opening and Pat is offering their hand. Zarina takes it, her leg slipping out from under my grip as she steps out of the car. I follow after her, buttoning my suit jacket. A light drizzle patters against the sidewalk as we stride toward Darius already standing at the large, wooden double doors carved with the story of Christ.

At the bottom of the stairs, I grab hold of Zarina’s hand. She frowns down at my fingers as they thread through hers. “Ready?”

She straightens her back until she’s scowling down her nose at me. “Born ready.”

I grin wide, canines biting my bottom lip, and lift her knuckles to my mouth. “Let’s go, princess.”

Darius holds open the door as we walk across the threshold to face the Council. He doesn’t follow us in. Weapons are forbidden within these stone walls—no bodyguards, no guns, no knives. It is the most important rule among the Cardinal Families, borne out of bloody necessity. Our steps echo through the chamber as we cross into the nave. The ceilings sweep in repeated arches above the wooden pews, and prayer candles flicker when we pass, Zarina’s gold dress glittering in their light. Saint Christopher’s is the oldest Catholic church in the city, and the Cardinal Families have called it safe harbor for nigh on a century—since long before the rules of engagement were established and viciously enforced. I’ve never set foot in here, not allowed to attend mass or confessional as a dishonorable gang leader.

I worship a different goddess, anyway.

In the front rows sit five men. There should only be four. I toss Zarina a frown, but she’s aiming a vicious glare at the dark-brown head of hair sitting in the pew beside another peppered gray. He turns in his seat, and I almost trip over the rug.

Marcus Accardi.

He wears a self-satisfied smirk that screams over-confidence as his eyes trail down Zarina’s figure, stopping on the slit in her dress and the leg-ass combination it draws attention to, and licks his bottom lip. Zarina snorts, unbothered. But something like a huffed growl rumbles through my chest. I want to curl my hand around her waist and yank her behind me. I want to punch the hungry look off Marcus’s face.

Instead, I wait until his gaze rolls back up and his eyes shift to mine, like he’s waiting for my reaction. I offer him a lazy grin and a wink. He scowls.

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