Page 37 of Rubies and Revenge

Their mouth gapes in open offense. “Cheap shot, Z!”

“Whatever gets you to shutup,” I grumble.

Pat giggles, high and breathy, and it makes a smile pull at the corners of my lips. They never laughed much at home, even if we were alone. The other soldiers and capos used anything they could as evidence of Pat’s weakness. Evidence that they didn’t belong because of their anatomical gender. Every day was a struggle to earn their place among them. And I don’t think they ever really did.

Pat shakes themself and steps up to the vanity beside me. “It didn’t mean anything right?”

“No,” I say. Because it can’t. Like Pat said, this is the deal I made. A deal to give me time and space to figure out just how fucked the Gallo Family finances really are and why my parents were willing to sell off their only daughter to fix it. A deal I agreed to in part to prove that I can be a better don than my father, than my mother who uses him as her puppet. A deal that doesn’t allow for more than passing lust for Andrea Tamayo. “No, it didn’t mean anything.”

They study me as if they can see straight through me. “Don’t catch feelings, Z. We’re not u-hauling with a gangster.”

“Ew, I could never.” I fake gag.

“Good. One more thing”—they lean over and swing the bathroom door almost fully closed, lowering their voice—“I overheard something interesting.”

I turn on the faucet and let the water run.

Pat nods, still speaking low. “Tamayo secured an invite to Casa Nostra.”

My body stills. Casa Nostra is the mafia gentleman’s club and another neutral zone. Where Saint Christopher’s is the overwrought, dramatic setting of Council meetings, the dizzying arches meant to prop up the Cardinal Families as if they wield benevolent power from its pews, Casa Nostra is the seedy underbelly of Louredo dressed in polished mahogany and steeped in cigar smoke. The most powerful men loiter in its lounge, negotiating law, business, and criminal deals over poker and whisky.

And of course, besides paid escorts, only a select few powerful women are invited inside its sacred walls. Which now seems to include Tamayo.

“Who invited her?” My voice is as low as Pat’s.

They shake their head. “Not sure, but she’s going on Wednesday.”

Three days from now.

Pat leans in closer, as if they don’t want to allow the smallest chance of anyone overhearing their next words. “Doesn’t the Birdwatcher spend most nights at the poker table?”

A slow, conniving smirk spreads across my lips. “Yes. Yes, they do.”

TAMAYO

Iwould like to throw my phone into the ocean.

Unfortunately, the largest body of water beside me is my fucking toilet. I could fill the tub in the hopes that theplop-sinkwould satisfy the depths of my frustration in this moment, but I think only the blue-black waters of the Bend River would be enough. The damned thing vibrates in my hand, Angie’s name on the screen, and I don’t have to answer it to know what kind of news waits for me on the other end.

Assault. Robbery. Vandalism. Narcs and moles. Take your fucking pick.

It’s been four days since we left the Council meeting, since Marcus laid hands on Zarina, since I had her in my lap, and I have never had so many fires to put out. Homophobic slurs were spray painted across the Den on Sunday. A slew of small businesses that lease from the Tamayos in Sallay were hit Monday and Tuesday. And if my capos hadn’t swept the fucking area before unloading the weapons shipment, we would have walked right into a goddamn police raid.

I almost don’t answer the phone. Soldiers have been instructed to tighten ranks, halt recruitment,and keep all street activity legal, but we can’t play shield for much longer without revealing a chink in the armor.

I swipe my wet hair out of my face and finally answer. “Angie.” I can’t summon an even tone.

Neither can she. “We’ve got thugs harassing the line.”

“Fuck.” It’s not even ten at night on a Wednesday.

“This is out of fucking hand, Tamayo.” Angie is one of the few people who’s earned the right to talk to me like this. And it’s mostly because she’s right more often than not.

“No fucking shit,” I mutter.

“We can’t operate like this,” she says.

“I know that, Angie.” I yank a brush through my hair with more force than necessary, glaring at my reflection.

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