Page 4 of Rubies and Revenge

I don’t even consider that the third man will reach me, that he’ll have time to fumble for his gun and aim it straight at me. I narrow my glare on Antoni and strike his Adam’s apple full force. At the same moment, Darius steps over him and diverts the last soldier’s hand to the ceiling before he fires. He wrenches his wrist backward until the gun drops and then slips his arm the size of my thigh around the man’s neck, squeezing until he passes out.

Antoni writhes on the ground, clutching his throat. I kneel beside him and forcibly turn him on his back, digging into his pockets, waistband, and socks—disarming him. Three guns, a knife, and brass knuckles, all of which Darius takes for himself.

“Toni—may I call you Toni?” I smack his cheek as he tries to speak past the laryngeal fracture caused by my boot to his throat. He settles on glaring at me. “I’ve decided to give you one last chance, because I’m a reasonable person.”

Darius disarms the dead and unconscious soldiers surrounding us. The front door of the restaurant chimes the arrival of someone, but he doesn’t mind it, and nor do I. Tamayo soldiers—my soldiers—slip through the tables. One pair heads into the kitchen to take care of any security footage and record names and addresses of any straggling witnesses, while the other two unfold plastic tarps beside the dead.

I ignore it all, my eyes never straying from Antoni’s livid face. “But my terms have changed, now. I don’t take kindly toyour betrayal of a friend. I honored the traditions, and you spat on me in return.” I hold out my hand, and Darius drops the napkin with the glob of alley muck into it. I open it carefully in my palms, the goo and dirt clinging to the fabric, the rancid stench invading my nose. “That’s not how we conduct business, Toni.”

I take the napkin and wipe it from his forehead, over his eye, down his cheek to his chin. He tries to push me off, but Darius kneels on his chest and yanks his wrists to his sides. I make sure to rub the muck over his mouth before I finally pull away.

Antoni spits and sputters, one eye scrunched against the brown slime dripping over his lid and brow.

“Tell Jimmy Falcone the terms are no longer favorable and he has you to thank for that.” I pat his cheek again—the clean one—smiling as if we’re having a nice chat over dinner and drinks. The way this should have gone. I rise, my right knee twinging and shooting pain up my thigh after squatting for so long. I crack my neck, adjust the sleeves of my undershirt, and brush my jacket smooth, not showing a hint of pain. Darius stays on Antoni’s chest as I prop his chin with my boot.

The fire burning inside me is barely banked. I wanted more of a fight. I wanted to feel the snap of his bones, to see bruises welt his skin, to leave my mark on him so he’d remember for the rest of his life how weak and stupid he was to betray me.

But the Council has very strict traditions and consequences to avoid sinking our city into war.

I stomp on his face. The impact echoes up my leg and sharpens the pain in my knee, but the satisfyingly wet crunch of his nose breaking is worth it. Blood flows from his nostrils, mixing with the muck on his lips and chin.

I breathe in deep and force the inferno inside me to retreat from my feet, from my hands, out of my limbs and into my chest. Without a look back at Antoni, I stride for the door andstop, hand on the handle, to call back, “I look forward to hearing from Jimmy within the week, Toni. Don’t let me down!”

Darius shakes his head with that same fond annoyance, and I shoot him a wicked grin, tongue tracing the edges of my teeth. He grabs the door before it can fall shut and follows me onto the sidewalk. As soon as we’re out of sight of the restaurant, he offers me his elbow. I take it, using it to deftly hide the shift of my weight off my right leg.

“Should I carry you?” he teases.

“Just get in the fucking car,” I grumble.

ZARINA

My room feels wrong when I enter it, like someone’s rifled through my things and moved each object over half an inch. But everything is just as I left it. It’s me who has shifted. I’ve lived here for all my life. I know it as intimately as the streets of Gallo territory, as my own body.

Which is no longer my own.

I flip the deadbolt locked and rest my forehead against the cold wood. The urge to cry and rage and destroy builds in my chest. The marigold silk draped over my four-poster canopy bed would go first. Then I’d grab the switchblade from my nightstand and rip into the teal chaise lounge. Then I’d fire the handgun that lives beside the knife at the bulletproof glass windows lining the entire south-facing wall. Would they hold at point-blank range? Would they ricochet and take me out and save me from this ludicrous deal?

Death before dishonor.

The Gallo Family words echo as I turn and my head falls back against my door with a soft thump. I grew up learning that hurting a fellow Gallo meant dishonoring the family, but if thatwere true, my parents wouldn’t ask this of me. They’d let meseehow badly we’re fucked rather than sell me off to the debtor.

Thankfully, I don’t need their permission.

I shove off the door and stride across the room, skipping the four steps to the lower level, where the chaise lounge sits in front of the working fireplace. I shove open the en suite bathroom door, ignoring the high-backed clawfoot tub and turning directly into the walk-in-closet. The chandelier and backlit shelves and racks brighten the moment I enter. Velvet, silk, denim, suede, leather, all neatly organized by occasion and then level of impression.

But I’m not here to change. I stand before the wall of shoes, perfectly spaced so as not to touch each other, and pull on a pair of garish, hot-pink heels with gaudy diamonds on the toe—a gift from an aunt with the same fashion taste as Paris Hilton circa 2003,gag. A latch clicks, and the wall swings open just enough for me to grab the edge and pull it wide.

Weapons hang from their hooks—another handgun, a pistol, a nightstick, a taser, brass knuckles in matte black, and even pepper spray. And in the middle, framed by the myriad of deadly tools, sits a safe tucked into the wall.

I twist the dial, around and back and around again, and with each number, my pulse thrums against my wrists. When it unlocks and I open the door, I stare at the three wads of petty cash, at the hardbound notebook, at the external hard drive, and chew my lip.

I snuck into the library a few months ago and plugged the hard drive into Mother’s computer to copy the Gallo Family ledger. But I haven’t had the guts to take it out of my personal safe since then, scared to learn what it said.

I knew something was wrong. I’ve known for months. It was in the small things. The way Mother would ask me to flirt at events more than usual. The way Father didn’t come home before midnight most nights and skipped church on Sundaysmore often than he attended. The way a couple captains we’d always had, who had been part of the family my entire lifetime, no longer showed up to family dinner on Sundays.

I trace the drive’s edges with my fingers. If I were to run to any of the other Cardinal Families, their rules would demand they return me to my parents, or worse—to Marcus. That can’t happen. There’s nowhere to go that I’ll be truly hidden, no family to call on that will honor my autonomy. But I can’t evade my parents or the Accardis without help.

And there’s only one person who fits the bill.

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