Page 40 of Rubies and Revenge

A devilish grin unfurls across my lips. “Wouldn’t have thought you were into knife play.”

“When the occasion calls for it.” Her hand is steady, no hint of a tremor, of hesitation.

“What are you gonna do, princess?” I lean into it, the blade an ounce of pressure away from breaking my skin. “Cut me?”

She smirks slow as honey. “I’ll let you choose where.”

“You forgot about my other hand, hm.” I aim my gun for her gut, my fist resting on my knee.

She laughs, bright and short. “Death before dishonor, Tamayo.” She winks. “Whether you like it or not, I’m worth far more to you alive than dead. You, on the other hand…” Her eyes rake over me, down and up, and come back as if she’s found me wanting. “You, I can spare.”

I reach out with the fingers of my captive hand and brush the green silk of her dress, right above her navel. She presses her eyes closed a second too long to be a simple blink, and her smirk loses its shape.

I sigh and replace my gun in my waistband. “All right, princess. You can come.”

She stares at me without removing the knife from my throat or her hand from my wrist, like she’s unwilling to believe my words. I get it. I’m not sure why I’m agreeing either. Path of least resistance? Devilish curiosity? All I know is I don’t have time to lollygag.

“Try to behave, hm?” My gaze slinks down her dress, to the seam of her thighs, to her hands around my wrist. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’ve been ruined by a gangster.”

Zarina holds completely still, like she might topple if she gives a single inch. I wish she were closer. Wish her shoulders would loosen and her posture would melt back into the leather seat. Wish it was Saturday again and the space between us would vanish.

“Darius, let’s go.” I don’t move my gaze from hers as I speak or as Darius grumbles, pushing the door shut with more force the necessary. My knuckles draw patterns like hurricane paths over her dress as Darius and Pat slide into the front seats. His words the other night hang between the front and back of the car.There’s nothing to keep her from crossing us.Zarina adjusts her grip, and it nearly nicks my neck.

“Unless you’re planning to use it, can you sheathe the knife, princess?” My voice is soft and rumbly.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “There’s always a possibility.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

ZARINA

Casa Nostra is like a speakeasy without a secret password. The host triple-checks our name on his list, like he can hardly believe street urchins are allowed to darken his precious doorstep, let alone the lounge he leads us to. I scan the dimly lit corridor, the too-muscled security standing in front of an emerald velvet rope blocking the stairwell, the well-worn hardwood with its polished sheen and creaky floorboards, the three closed doors we pass that are entirely too silent. And then we enter the lounge.

Unlike the Den of Inequity, it’s exactly what I expect.

My shoulders remain straight and tall despite the sigh that whistles out from under my tongue. The place is all bronze finishes and overstuffed leather chairs and whisky poured into neat tumblers with cigar smoke choking the air. Men, all of whom likely have a room in their ornate mansions or penthouse apartments that looks eerily similar to this, gather in besuited huddles and speak too loudly.

I keep my face neutral to hide my distaste. “The most powerful men in Louredo are in this room,” I murmur, “and allthey can imagine for themselves is the same thing men have imagined since the invention of the wheel.”

Tamayo hums, leading us to the bar. A few patrons narrow their eyes as we pass, while a few more crane their necks to get a better look. “Whisky, leather, and cigars.”

“And women.” I spy the handful dotting the crowd, bright gems glittering in the smoke. Each of them hangs off a man’s arm or sits on a man’s lap. Always near power, but never grasping it. The hungry teeth inside my chest grate at the thought.

“I can’t fault them there.” Tamayo swipes her thumb across the small of my back, making my skin prickle with a shiver.

“I can,” I growl.

“Remember,wifey”—she throws the horrid nickname I used back at me—“behave.”

I run my hand up her arm, onto her shoulder, and play with the shaved hairs at her neck. She leans a hip against the bar and orders for us—as if I am no longer an autonomous person who can order for myself, fuck you very much—and ignores me. I press closer, my chest against her arm and my nose at her ear. “What are the parameters, hm? What does it mean to behave?”

“It means”—her fingers fiddle with the chain straps of my dress, yanking one like a church bell—“use that pretty mouth to say only pretty things and don’t leave my side.”

I scratch my nails a little too hard over her nape. “That’s a tall order. What’s in it for me?”

She doesn’t turn, still. “Casa Nostra.”

“A poor deal.” I want to ruffle her hair just to see if she’ll do something about it, but I know this isn’t the place.

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